
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 












No. 12. 


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NEW YORK: 

J. S. OGILVIE, Publisher 
57 Rose Street. 

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GATHERED "GEMS. 

A New Booh, Comprising a Series of 

Thirty of the Best Sermons 

EVER DELIVERED BY 

REV. T. DE WITT TALMAGE, D.D., 

Who is , without any question, the most popular 
preacher of the century. 

THIS BOOK ALSO CONTAINS 


Complete Life of this Famous Preacher. 

ALSO 20 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. 

It contains Thirteen Sermons on the Wedding Ring. 

Twelve Sermons on Woman; Her Power and Privileges. 
Six Sermons entitled the Battle for Bread. 

On the Eelations of Labor and Capital. 

In addition to the thirty-one sermons described above, the book also con- 
tains the complete Life of Rev. T. De Witt Talmage, D.D . with a history of the 
Brooklyn Tabernacle. Edited by John Lobb, F.R.G S. This history of his life 
is alone worth much more than the price of the book, and contains facts in 
reference to his early struggles and experiences which have never before 
appeared in print in this couutry. 

Among the hundreds of thousands of people who have read the utterances 
of this wonderfully successful man there are none but will be glad to have this 
book. 

It contains 725 pages, and is sold at the following remarkably low 
prices, in order thatevefy family may be provided with a copy of it. 

PRICES. 

Bound in handsome Silk Cloth, with Ink and Gold Stamp, $1.50 ; 
bound in Half Bus si a, Marbled Mdges, $2.00. 

Sent by mail, post-paid, to any address on receipt of price. 

AGENTS WANTED in every towm to sell this book, 50 per cent 
wount to live men and women. 

To any person w'ho mentions where they saw this advertisement I will send 
: Prospectus Book, with full particulars, and a copy of the book, bound in 
/•loth, for $1.50, provided you state that you wish to act as agent, and state 
what territory you can use to advantage. Address all orders and applications 
for an agency to 

J. S. OGILVIE, Publisher, 

JP. O. Box 2767. 67 Hose St., New York. 


THE 


VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES 




BY 

HOWARD FIELDING 

AND 

FREDERICK R. BURTON. 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY THOS. WORTH. 


(Copyright, 1890, by J. S. Ogilvie.) 


22 

f , & cOPYRIG/- 

I a m in 


s, No. 12. 'Slhq^d Price, $3.00 per year. 


The Sunnyside Series, No. 12. issued Momeny. ^ . 

New York Post Officers ^ei'ond-dass matter." Copyright by J. S. Ogilvie. 


NEW YORK: 

J. S. OGILVIE, Publisher, 

57 Rose Street 


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I 





THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


CHAPTER I. 

RAGS AND TATTERS. 

Lawrence Drane awoke with a shudder 
from a dream of poverty. Doubtless many 
people would like to know how he did it. Some 
of us have tried it and failed. We have strug- 
gled with this nightmare even when our eyes 
were open, and have not cast it off. In various 
shapes it haunts the shadows of this world. 
Mr. Drane, however, awoke; but before send- 
ing him our congratulations let us see what he 
found waiting for him. 

The first thing he saw on opening his eyes 
was a ragged coat which lay upon his arm. It 

was a garment eminently qualified to be offen- 

3 


4 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


sive to a gentleman; shiny, soiled, and ravelled 
at the edges. Mr. Drane blinked at it an in- 1 
stant and concluded that it must be a part 
of his recent troublesome fancies. 

“ Get out,” he muttered, sleepily, shaking the 
garment to the floor; “you’re a fake. I dreamed 
you, and I’m going to wake up in a minute.” 

No wonder he was deceived, for the coat 
fitted the dream with diabolical accuracy. It 
had not been a vision of financial embarrass- 
ment alone; he had seen himself walking on the 
uppers of disgrace over the rocky road of de- 
spair. 

His first waking impression had been a great 
thankfulness that he was himself again, a man 
of wealth and consideration ; a gentleman by 
birth and breeding. Then he had seen the 
ragged coat and denied its reality. 

He let his head fall upon the pillow again, 
and sank for a moment into sleep. Then he 
awoke with k start. 

“Queer notion about that coat,” he said, 
and glanced over the edge of the bed. The 
coat was there. None of its fine points had 




RAGS AND TATTERS. 5 

got away. The summer sunbeams round the 
edges of the curtains glinted upon its greasy 
wristbands and glassy sleeves. Mr. Drane sat 
upon the bed and stared stupidly at the strange 
garment. The sight confused him. 

He tried to recall the events which had pre- 
ceded his sleep. He remembered his journey 
eastward from his home in Kansas City; the 
business interests which he had in charge ; the 
hot, dusty, tiresome ride which had brought 
him to New York on his way to Boston. He 
recalled how he had found himself so tired 
that he had resolved to wait in New York long 
enough to have a good nap in a hotel ; how he 
had entered the first one he found, and had 
stumbled sleepily along in the wake ofsthe 
hall-boy to the room wherein he lay. Then 
he had cast himself upon the bed after remov- 
ing only his outer clothing. 

“ By the way,” thought he, with a sudden 
start, “ where are my clothes I should like to 
know ?” 

How easy it is to ask questions, and how 
eternally hard it is to answer them, Mr. 


6 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


Drane’s hasty but^horough search of the apart- 
ment revealed no reply to his very natural 
queery. He did not find his clothes because 
they were not there, but he did succeed in 
discovering a waistcoat and a pair of panta- 
loons which owned disgraceful kinship with 
the coat. 

“ If I were a drinking man,” he muttered, 
in dire perplexity “ I think that I should find 
the motive for a great reformation somewhere 
in this affair.” 

At this moment he found himself con- 
fronted by a mirror, and as his own reflection 
met his eyes he couldn’t help being assailed 
by the idea that a change had come over his 
countenance which, if it were not equal in ex. 
tent to that which had overtaken his clothes, 
was yet in the same unfortunate direction. 

Of course it was one of those crooked hotel 
mirrors which so shockingly wreck the features 
of their victims. According to this veracious 
glass, Mr. Drane had a swelling on his left 
cheek, and was afflicted with strabismus, ery- 
sipelas and a disordered liver, complicated 


RAGS AND TATTERS. 


7 


with a three days' beard. None of these per- 
sonal charms had any real existence except 
the beard, and that wasn’t so bad as it looked. 
In spite of it, Mr. Drane was a very good- 
looking young man ; but he couldn’t see it in 
that glass. * 

“Jingo!” he exclaimed, as he gazed upon 
this optical monstrosity. “ They’ve stolen me 
along with my clothes. I must have assis- 
tance.” 

He turned to the annunciator and consulted 
the directions for its use. First, he rang once 
for the hall-boy, but there was no response. 
Then he gave three jabs for ice-water, but it 
did not come. Six for a hack and seven for the 
police were equally unproductive ; and when 
he had tried eleven for the fire department 
and twelve for an ambulance he gave it up. 

“ If they had given me permission to ring 
thirteen times for the coroner I should feel 
that I had done my full duty,” groaned Law- 
rence ; and then he laughed, it was all so ab- 
surd. He felt in the pockets of the deplor- 
* able clothes which had been left for him, but 


s 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


he did not find their late owner’s name and 
address, nor any other article of value. 1 he 
loss of his money and watch did not trouble 
him much, for he had never felt the pressing 
need of a dollar, and did not know what its 
absence may imply. As for his watch the 
police would recover that. Mr. Drane had 
exaggerated notions about the metropolitan po- 
lice. He did not know that before they would 
find that watch in the ordinary course of their 
business he -Would be all done with time and a 
large part of eternity. 

So he didn’t worry about those things, but 
bestowed his regret very sensibly upon the 
absence of certain papers. He knew nobody 
in New York, and had now no means of es- 
tablishing his identity. Evidently he would 
have to make the landlord telegraph to his 
friends while he remained in pawn for all fur- 
ther charges at the hotel. 

The first necessity was to get down-stairs to 
the office, for while he delayed his clothes 
were no doubt getting more and more remote 
every minute. He ventured into the hall in 


RAGS AND TATTERS. 


9 


his underclothing, but was instantly driven 
back by the sight of a young woman’s back. 
That in itself was not considerable, but there 
was no telling when she might turn about 
So Mr. Drane retreated. 

Consideration, repulsive and prolonged, 
showed him that there was no help for it, he 
must don the habiliments of poverty. His 
soul was full of wrath, tempered with admira- 
tion when he thought of the coolness of the 
thief who had made the exchange of garments 
so cleverly. He remembered that for greater 
security he had held his coat in his arms when 
he had lain down to sleep. 

Dressed in the character of Lazarus Mr. 
Drane hastened along the hall and intercepted 
the elevator in its descent. 

“ Down,” said he, with dignity. 

“ Walk down,” replied the elevator boy, 
sharply, as the car swept by. It was the first 
humiliation of rags. Mr. Drane walked down 
according to directions. He approached the 
clerk. 


10 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


“ Some miserable thief — ” he began. The 
clerk struck a big bell with alarming force. 

“ Walsh,” said he to a porter, “ put this con- 
founded tramp out. I thought you fired him 
an hour ago.” 

“So I did, sir,” said Walsh, rolling up his 



sleeves, “but he don’t come back this time 
unless his remainders is brought up from the 
sidewalk in a basket.” 

Mr. Drane turned about with the intention 
of standing the porter on his head for his im- 



RAGS AND TATTERS. 


11 


pertinence, a thing he could easily have done, 
for he was a young man of remarkable strength 
and excellent training in the use of it ; but 
as he turned he saw his own image in a long 
mirror let into the wall. He was the ideal 
dead-beat. He stared at this libelous cari- 
cature of himself with amazement. The char- 
acter reached out from the mirror and seized 
upon him with a grip he could not shake off. 
He seemed to shrink morally, intellectually, 
and physically, to fit his garments and there 
was no more back-bone in his body. 

He was the tramp all over. In spite of 
himself, he played the part to the life, and 
submitted to ejection with only the ordinary 
protestations of injured innocence which are 
always ridiculous. 

He stood on the edge of the sidewalk and 
endeavored to collect his senses. It was time 
to stop making mistakes and he knew it. 
Evidently he must have money, and the only 
way to get it that was speedy enough to satisfy 
the demands of his impatience was by wire. 
He found a telegraph office, and wrote out a 


12 THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 

moderate request that his father in Kansas 
City should send five hundred dollars at the 
rate of one hundred and ninety thousand miles 
a second or faster if the electricity could be 
hurried. 

It was a branch telegraph office, and a young 
man with a shrewd face was in charge* 

“Send this collect, ” said Lawrence, laying 
down his message. 

“What do you take me for?” inquired the 
young man, blandly. 

Lawrence recognized that some explanation 
was necessary, so he briefly outlined the case. 
The young man looked interested, and Law- 
rence was encouraged. He entered more into 
detail, and the young man put on a sweet and 
trustful smile. Lawrence reached the point in 
his narrative where the porter loomed into 
prominence, and he hesitated, feeling the 
humiliation of his defeat. 

“ And then — and then,” said he, blushing. 

“And then,” said the young man, solemnly, 
“ you put the cork back into the bottle, and 


RAGS AND TATTERS. 


13 


the green snakes disappeared. I commend 
your prudence. You’ve had enough.” 

“ Do you mean to intimate that I am intoxi- 
cated?” 

“Not at all,” replied the young man; “but 
you’ll have to try this story at the main office 
on Broadway. It is too exciting for my 
nerves.” 

“ From this position the manager refused to 
recede, and Lawrence was obliged to content 
himself with directions how to find the main 
office. It was not a very long walk, but shame 
at his garments made it a path of torture. It 
was not plain sailing after he got there, either, 
for it took half an hour of painful argument 
to coax the message on to the wire. 

The answer was slow in coming. The long 
evening twilight was well advanced before he 
was notified that Kansas City had been heard 
from. This was the reply : 

“ Have wired money to New Haven. 

“ Sanford Drane.” 

When Lawrence read this he deeply re- 


14 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


gretted his small command of expletives. His 
disappointment nearly burst him. 

“Any reply?” asked the man who had 
brought the telegram. Lawrence’s temper got 
the better of him, and he wrote : 

“ Why didn’t you send it to Jericho ?” 

“L. D.” 

He cooled down after awhile, and finally 
persuaded the night manager to have a query 
sent to New Haven. The answer read as 
follows : 

“Lawrence Drane collected money here. 
Fully identified.” 

When this reply had been read by the night 
manager, it was evident that he had made up 
his mind what to do. Lawrence saw it in his 
eyes, and he knew that he was in a bad scrape. 
He prepared to get out, for he was well aware 
that arrest stared him in the face. The man- 
ager tried to detain him. Lawrence pushed 
him over a chair and fled, hotly pursued by 
a half dozen messenger boys and a few clerks. 
He was too nimble for them, however, and in 


RAGS AND TATTERS. 


15 


a few minutes he stood alone upon the street, 
penniless, tired and hungry. 

It is a curious physiological fact that a man 
can voluntarily abstain from food for twenty- 
four hours with far less remonstrance from his 
stomach than that organ will make if its owner 
unwillingly fasts for half that time. When 
Lawrence realized that he had not money 
enough to buy a sandwich he became hungrier 
than he had ever been before in his life. He 
was positively faint, and as he stood upon a 
corner trying to decide upon a course of action 
he closed his eyes and actually reeled with ex- 
haustion. 

A man passing rapidly along ran against 
him. Lawrence did not even look at him. 

“ Poor fellow,” muttered the stranger; “ he’s 
blind,” and he slipped a ten-cent piece into 
Lawrence’s hand. 

“ Confound you !” exclaimed Lawrence in a 
rage, “ I can see as well as you can.” 

The stranger opened his eyes, his mouth and 
charitable heart at the same moment. 

“ Have I lived to see this day !” he cried. 


1G 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


“ Here, my friend, here is half a dollar for the 
only really honest man in New York.” 

Lawrence refused it, and tried to give back 
the dime, but the stranger wouldn’t take it. 
He appeared to be an exceptionally humane 
old fellow. Lawrence walked along by his 
side for a few steps, and the idea struck him 
that here was a chance to tell his story to be- 
lieving ears. He began it with considerable 
hope in his heart, but he had got no further 
than a brief outline of his real financial solid- 
ity and apparent poverty when he heard the 
stranger mutter: “ New game; new game. 
Never saw it before, but I’m onto it just the 
same.” 

Then he hurried away, and Lawrence was 
left alone with the dime still in his hand. The 
encounter had not been wholly unprofitable, at 
all events. 

He debated long with himself upon the 
question how he should expend his ten cents. 
That he should buy food with it was of course 
a foregone conclusion, but how could he get 
the most for his money ? He tried to recall 


RAGS AND TATTERS. 


17 - 

all the stories he had heard of men who had 
been in similar depths of poverty — stories told 
by Bohemian acquaintances who pried them- 
selves upon such experiences. In all of these 
that he could remember the salvation of the 
narrator had ultimately depended upon that 
great modern institution, the free lunch. He 
had never had any personal experience with 
such fare, because he was a total abstainer, and 
never visited places where free lunches are 
found ; but he thought he knew the machinery 
pretty well from the experience of others. It 
was necessary to buy a drink at the bar, after 
which one could go to a convenient counter 
and gorge himself with all the delicacies of the 
season. 

He looked about him for a saloon. There 
was one behind him, another in front of him 
and several more in sight. New York is that 
kind of a town. Lawrence hesitated. He re- 
flected that his circumstances did not justify 
him in selecting a gilded den of vice where 
drinks might be fifteen cents apiece. He must 
choose something better suited to a gentleman 

) 

/ 


18 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


in adversity. He selected a den without any 
gilding and entered. Approaching the bar he 
put down his ten cents and tried to think of 
some mild decoction which he could safely 
take. It was one of Mr. Drane’s peculiarities 
that he could not drink alcoholic liquors, or 
even wines, without almost instantaneous ine- 
briation. He never dared drink even a glass 
of wine with his dinner because it went to his 
head. Beer he detested. He was in a quan- 
dary. 

“Well, young feller?” said the bartender, 
interrogatively. At that moment Lawrence’s 
eyes rested upon this inscription : 

GENUINE NEW JERSEY APPLE-JACK, \ 
i TEN CENTS. ] 

“That must be something like cider,” he re- 
flected, and then he said aloud : “ Give me a 
glass of apple-jack.” 

“ It’s a little out of season, but I’ll go yer,” 
said the bartender, and he produced the fluid. 
Lawrence drank it in a hurry, because he was 
anxious to get at the free lunch. It made him 
cough. 


Rags and tatters. 


19 


“Your apple-jack is a trifle strong,” said he, 
apologetically. 

“ If you don’t like our apple-jack,” said the 
barkeeper, “ you can take it out’n de place, 
see ?” 

Lawrence hastened to say that on second 
thought he found it the best he had ever tasted. 
In reality he perceived with horror that it was 
already going to his head. There was a mist 
before his eyes as he made for the lunch 
counter, but that was not the reason why he 
did not find what he expected. He saw all 
that there was — a few fragments of crackers in 
the bottom of a big bowl and a liberal supply 
of pickled cucumbers in a tin pan. That was 
all. And the dime was irrevocably gone. 

He gathered up a few cracker crumbs and 
tried to eat one of the pickles, but as a Bohe- 
mian meal it was not a success. Ten minutes 
later he was out in the street, The apple-jack 
was with him, and it was very busy. It made 
the lights in the windows dance like demons ; 
it dug holes in the pavement under his feet ; it 
filled his brain with a foolish exhilaration which 


20 


THE VICTIM OF IIIS CLOTHES. 


gradually subsided into a confused shame at 
the thought that he, Lawrence Drane, a gen- 
tleman born and bred, was homeless, hungry, 
ragged and drunk — yes, actually drunk on the 
streets of New York. 

He -staggered along he knew not how far, 
it seemed interminable miles, till at length he 
came to a broad park in the middle of the city. 
There he fell upon a bench, and an uneasy 
sleep closed his eyes. 


THE PRINCESS IN DISGUISE, 


21 


CHAPTER II. 

THE PRINCESS IN DISGUISE. 

A bird was twittering in the tree above him 
when Mr. Drane awoke, His consciousness 
returned at a jump with the opening of his 
eyes, and as he looked up at the gray sky he 
murmured : 

“And rosy-fingered Dawn brought in the Day." 

For a full minute he sat there, his lungs filled 
with the freshness of morning, his mind with 
the shallow exhilaration consequent upon the 
last fumes of intoxication ; his legs stretched 
out at a preposterous angle, his hands plunged 
into his trousers’ pockets, his hat defiantly 
poised upon his left ear. He looked at his 
shabby boots and shabbier trousers and smiled 
in infinite amusement. 

“A man in my circumstances,” he thought, 



22 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


“ would never imagine that a bundle of rags 
may ill conceal so much real joy. Glorious 
morning. Lucky to see it, by Jove.” 

This was a fatal reflection. 

“ My circumstances ?” he continued. “ What 
are they ? These are not mine at all. They 
belong to some one else.” 

His eyes were fixed at the moment upon a 
rent in his trousers which admitted a small de- 
tachment of cool, morning breeze fresh from 
the sea. The smile on his face gave way to an 
expression of disgust, and he sat up in’ sudden 
irritation. This movement caused a sharp pain 
to shoot across his back, which reminded him 
that the way of the transgressor is hard. 

And then the full, delightful, cussedness of 
the situation dawned upon him. What should 
he do ? What could he do ? 

He sat up again and looked hopelessly about. 
Upon a bench not fifteen paces away was a 
young woman, evidently a servant of some kind, 
for her dress was of plain material, set off with 
big white cuffs at the sleeves, and such a frill 
of lace at the neck as only ladies’ maids wear. 


THE PRINCESS IN DISGUISE. 


23 


Her face was concealed by a kerchief which 
she held to her eyes, and which Mr. Drane 
doubted not was in a process of lachrymose 
drenching. He watched her with languid in- 
terest, wondering stupidly what brought her 
there at such an hour, whether she had been 
locked out and feared a reprimand or discharge 
when she should go home ; whether, perhaps, 
she, too, had indulged too freely in — bah ! Mr. 
Drane recoiled in profound horror at the sug- 
gestion. Was it possible that a mere accidental 
change in circumstances, the mere accoutre- 
ments of the slums, should make him capable 
of entertaining for an instant such a thought 
about a woman ? Was a man to be the victim 
of his garments ? 

In silent reparation for his unuttered offense 
Mr. Drane began vigorously to think all man- 
ner of pretty things about the unhappy young 
woman, insisting to himself that she must be 
beautiful, innocent, injured, lovely, and so on, 
until presently, his adjectives having been three 
times exhausted, he had worked himself into a 
fair frenzy of interest about her. He longed 


24 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


to see her face, but that she kept persistently 
concealed ; to hear her voice, but not even a 
low sob rewarded his attentive ear. A mo- 
ment more and he would have resumed his 
miserable self-contemplation, but his interest 
in the young woman was sustained by an un- 
expected episode, 

Across the park came strolling idly a man 
such as the night wanderer in New York may 
meet at any hour. He wore an approved silk 
hat and the complete uniform of an evening 
diner. The collar of his light overcoat was 
turned up about his neck, but it was not but- 
toned. It was clear that he had dined wisely 
and played with a cool head afterwards and was 
now going home on principle, holding it as a 
canon of gentlemanly behavior that one should 
always be in bed by sunrise. 

Mr. Drane did not observe this vision of 
prosperous indolence until it paused directly be- 
fore the weeping young woman. It was clear 
that the man addressed her, for she started 
suddenly and took her kerchief from her eyes. 
Mr, Drane’s brows contracted and he watched 


THE PRINCESS IN DISGUISE. 


25 


the scene with more than curiosity. He saw 
the young man step nearer to the bench, put 
out his hand towards the young woman and 
move as if he would sit down beside her. 

He saw the young woman rise hastily and 
try to walk away, but the man laid his hand 
upon her shoulder. A second later and Drane 
had seized the fellow’s wrist with a grip that 
made the joint crack. Then he doubled the 
arm he held across the other’s chest so suddenly 
that he was flung back a pace or two. , 

“ You infernal tramp !” cried the fellow, and 
he was following it up with language much 
stronger when Mr. Drane interrupted him. 

“ Speak a single word that fails in respect to 
this woman,” said he, “or raise your finger to 
do her an injury, and I’ll break every bone in 
your body !” 

“ Well, take the chippie and — ” 

Mr. Drane lost patience and knocked the 
fellow down. It was a straight, quick blow 
and it closed the disturbance as well as the 
right eye of the man who received it. He 


26 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


staggered to his feet, growled something about 
the police and walked rapidly away. 

Mr. Drane turned to the lady’s maid, who, 
very pale, was leaning heavily against a tree. 

“ I trust that I did not frighten you,” he said. 
“ Perhaps I should have been less violent.” 

The maid did not reply at once. She looked 
at Mr. Drane in a daze of surprise until a faint 
color crept into her cheek and a suspicion of a 
smile crossed her lips. Then Mr. Drane re- 
membered. He glanced at his remnant of a 
hat which he held in his hand, and his eyes im- 
mediately fell, but he found no comfort in his 
boots, where they rested. All his gentility de- 
parted on the instant, and he shifted awk- 
wardly, trying to speak and merely mumbling. 
With the same irresistible gaucherie he passed 
his hand over his chin, and the rough stubble 
there gave further evidence of his absurdly 
miserable situation. The young woman seemed 
to realize somewhat of his emotions, for her 
face instantly became serious and she said, 
softly : 

“ I am sure I owe very much to your kind- 


THE PRINCESS IN DISGUISE. 


27 


ness, your courage, your muscle. Truly I am 
very grateful.” 

Mr. Drane knew that he was blushing, and 
he wondered whether his face was clean 
enough to show it. He looked up and saw 
the young woman’s blue eyes regarding him 
compassionately. 

“ I feel as if I must apologize for addressing 
you at all, miss,” he half stammered. “ I for- 
got my — well, my loathsome appearance. It 
isn’t mine, it isn’t my fault ; in fact, I am not 
exactly the thing you see.” 

“ Oh, forgive me if I have appeared to notice 
any thing but your goodness, sir,” exclaimed the 
young woman, approaching him impulsively as 
she spoke ; “you have doubtless been unfortu- 
nate, perhaps seen better days. I am sure you 
are a gentleman at heart, and I am grateful, 
indeed I am, believe me,” and without further 
ado she took his hand and pressed it warmly in 
both of hers. Mr. Drane winced. There was 
the most delicate condescension in her manner 
and tone ; her action said what words would 
have rendered offensive : “ See, I recognize 


28 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


your nobility of character, no matter how ugly 
is your disguise, and I am not ashamed to ac- 
knowledge it.” To be thus treated by a ser- 
vant ! 

Yesterday this interesting young person 
would have stammered in his presence, hung 
her head, and would have been overwhelmed 
at receiving a service at his hand. Now, 
forsooth, she speaks grandly, airs her superior- 
ity, condescends to grasp Mr. Lawrence 
Diane’s hand ! The unhappy man began to 
experience profound resentment at this con- 
ceited lady’s maid when a surprising change in 
her manner aroused his curious interest. She, 
let fall his hand as impulsively as she had seized 
it, blushed painfully and looked at her white 
little hands which she folded before her. 

“ Alas ! I forgot,” she said, and her lips 
trembled. “You can not understand, of 
course, Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! You see, I, too, 
am not all what you see me, or what you think 
I am.” 

Mr. Drane hastened to give the lie to his 
recent emotions. 


the erikcess isr disguise. 


“ I am sure, miss,” he deelared, gallantly, 
“ I have seen you and thought of you only as 
a lady in distress to whom it has been my un- 
alloyed pleasure to render some small assist- 
ance.’ 

The young woman looked up again. Her 
eyes were brimming with tears, nevertheless 
she laughed softly, 

“ I cannot help it, miserable as I am,” she 
said: “for your words do sound so incongru- 
ous,” and she glanced as if in spite of herself at 
Mr. Drane’s tattered clothing. 

“Yes, miss,” responded Mr. Drane, humbly. 
Then gathering courage from the remnants of 
his pride he added : “ And do you know, miss, 

I have thought the same about your words,” 
and he made no disguise of looking at the big 
cuffs, the emblem of her social position. 

“ I do not wonder,” she replied, calmly, “fori 
I am not ‘miss’ at all. I am a widow.” 

“ I am deeply grieved !” exclaimed Mr. 
Drane, hastily. “ A blow of that nature com- 
ing upon one so young must be severe indeed.” 


30 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


There was a most improper twinkle in the 
young woman’s eyes as she responded : 

“ Pray do not distress yourself. My widow- 
hood came so unexpectedly, was such a sur- 
prise, in fact, that it was more of a shock than 
a blow. There were certain compensating cir- 
cumstances, but, of course, I ought not to 
speak of such a matter lightly.” 

“No, I suppose not,” admitted Mr. Drane, 
rather dubiously. Even in his wretched situa- 
tion he felt an extraordinary interest in this 
young widow, and he wondered again vaguely 
how it came that she was away from her em- 
ployment at daybreak. She was tapping the 
ground with her foot thoughtfully, evidently 
hesitating about continuing her explanation. 
Mr. Drane was naturally curious. Circum- 
stances had brought them strangely together. 
What could be better than to exchange confi- 
dences ? He began : 

“You have been so good, madam, as to 
admit the possibility of my having seen better 
days. That is decidedly the case, and I mean 


THE PKIHCESS I X DISGUISE. 


3L 


to see better ones yet if luck is not wholly 
against me.” 

Then he stopped abruptly, for the conscious- 
ness of his situation overwhelmed him, and he 
felt the absurdity of confiding in a mere ser- 
vant. The young woman did not notice his 
manner. 

“ It is you who have been good,” she said, 
“and you ought to know more fully how you 
have befriended me. My story is a strange 
one ; people do not credit it, but I trust you 
will believe me. Let us sit down, for I am 
fatigued with anxiety and sleeplessness.” 

Still this same irritating condescension from 
a lady’s maid ! Mr. Drane thought ruefully 
of his bedraggled appearance and admitted that 
appearances justified it. What becomes of the 
fine 

“ A man’s a man for a’ that,” 
when every body estimates him by his apparel ? 
How can the ragamuffin maintain his own 
pride when he knows that the rest of the 
world is against him ? It is folly to kick 
against appearances, and what is folly is use- 


32 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


less, and what is useless should not be held; 
ergo, a man who appears to be a vagabond 
and disreputable is a vagabond and disreput- 
able, and so much the worse if he stubbornly 
endeavor to maintain the contrary. Such was 
the bitter train of reasoning indulged by Mr. 
Drane as he and the fair young widow went to 
the bench from which she had been driven, for 



SHE didn’t HAVE HER WEALTH WITH HER. 

she was fair, notwithstanding sundry evidences 
of a sleepless night, and interesting in spite of 
her big cuffs and lace frill. 

“ To begin, as a woman must, at neither end 
of the story,” she began when they were seated, 


THE PRINCESS IN DISGUISE. 


33 


“ you must know that I possess immense 
wealth.” 

Mr. Drane rose quickly. 

“ I beg your pardon for the interruption,” he 
said, “ but do you happen to have any of that 
with you ?” 

“ Alas T no,” she replied, dismally, “ and that 
is not the worst of it.” 

“ It’s as bad as it can be for the moment,” 
Mr. Drane insisted, as he resumed his seat. 
“You see, I would have been very glad to 
give you my note for five hundred if you had 
it convenient.” 

The young woman looked at him search- 
ingly. 

“ I should be wicked if I did not desire to 
help you, poor man,” she said gravely, “and 
I trust the time may come speedily when I 
shall be able to do so.” 

Mr. Drane was stung, but not crushed. 

“ Y ou must understand,” he exclaimed, u that 
I should repay it. I’ve got plenty of money, 
that is, there’s plenty belonging to me, and I 
can get it if I can only prove my identity.” 


34 THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 

The young woman’s eyes were dilated with 
wonder and doubt. 

“Strange!” she said, slowly, “for that is 
exectly my own case. You shall tell me your 
story presently. Listen to mine. I became 
an orphan at an early age, and until a little 
more than a year ago I lived with my guardian, 
a warm friend of my father’s, in Buffalo. At 
the time of which I am about to speak with 
some particularity I had just attained my ma- 
jority, so that I controlled what little property 
had been bequeathed to me. I stilll ived with 
my guardian, however, and had not thought 
seriously of the fact that I was at last abso- 
lutely a responsible being in the world. There 
had been some suitors for my hand, but to 
none had I shown the least favor. That they 
were all sincere I had no doubt, for my fortune 
was too slight to be a temptation. Among 
them was a singular young man of really im- 
mense riches. He was generally credited with 
being the possessor of thirteen millions.” 

“ Deuced unlucky figure,” interposed Mr. 
Drane. 


THE PRINCESS IN DISGUISE. 


35 


“You shall see,” said the fair narrator. “ I 
could not bring myself to feel towards this 
young man as I believe a woman should to- 
wards a husband, although I had no reason to 
entertain any thing but respect for his charac- 
ter. My guardian pleaded with me to make a 
match so palpably desirable, but I could not 
consent. It was while this matter was pend- 
ing that some of my associates arranged to 
give an amateur theatrical performance for the 
benefit of a charitable institution. As fortune, 
or perhaps shrewd design, would have it, this 
wealthy young man and I were cast for oppo- 
site parts. I had plainly rejected his proposals 
to me, but he would not take no for an an- 
swer, and he persisted in a quiet, good-natured 
devotion that I could not resent, but which 
began to grow irksome, until at last I feared 
that I should have to marry him in order to be 
free from him. I was in this half tormented 
spirit when we met one night at a private 
house for rehearsal. 

“ He was always insisting that we should go 
over our love scenes again and again, and the 


36 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


others who understood the situation sided with 
him. . At the end of that evening, having . 
teased me so much as possible, he suggested 
that we carry the story of our play to its logi- 
cal conclusion by rehearsing a marriage cere- 
mony. ‘ It’s something we must all come to,’ 
he said, ‘and I imagine that a fellow would 
feel much better before the altar if he had 
learned how to go through the motions.’ The 
others, silly young things ! were fired with the 
idea and without further thought arranged the 
furniture so as to represent an altar, the chan- 
cel rail and all that.” 

“A very reprehensible proceeding,” com- 
mented Mr. Drane. The young woman was 
about to proceed when a gray-coated officer, 
one of those guardians of public parks ironi- 
cally known as “sparrow chasers,” stepped up 
and addressed Mr. Drane : 

“ Say, yous, do you think nobody else don’t 
want to sit down ? I let you sleep off your 
jag here, see ? an’ it’s ’bout time you moved 
on, see ?” 


THE PRINCESS IN DISGUISE. 


37 


Mr. Drane was about to resent the inter- 
ference when the young woman whispered : 

“ Say nothing and obey.” 

So they rose, and followed for a moment by 
the policeman’s curious eyes, walked along the 
winding path to another bench, where they sat 
down again. 

“ Officious impudence !” muttered Mr. 
Drane. 

“Never mind,” said the young woman, 
soothingly, “ he has to do something to earn 
his pay. Let me see, where was I on the 
other bench ?” 

“At the mock chancel rail.” 

“ Oh, yes ; well, teased as I was I consented 
to the farce, saying that it should be the last 
of my lover’s nonsense that I would endure. 
We went through an absurd rigmarole, they 
made me say lots of foolish things, and at the 
end the young man who played the minister 
insisted on kissing the bride. Then my mock 
husband insisted, and — oh ! dear me ! — it was 
very mortifying, and until that wretched per- 
formance was given I had to endure all sorts 


38 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


of banter and jest. Then came the tragedy. 
A few days after the performance my mock 
husband was thrown from his carriage and in- 
stantly killed. Of course I was shocked, to- 
gether with his other friends, but you may 
imagine my surprise when his will was unsealed 
to find that he had left, after a few minor be- 
quests, all his thirteen millions to me, his wife !” 

“ Whew !” exclaimed Mr. Drane, softly, and 
he looked hard at the ground to conceal the 
incredulity that he knew must show itself in 
his eyes. 

. “ I then learned,” continued the young 
woman, “that the man who performed the 
mock ceremony was authorized to do it in real 
earnest, and that the presence of witnesses and 
the other features of New York law made the 
marriage legal. It was carried to the courts 
and so decided. Behold me, then, a widow 
with great wealth. The situation was not 
wholly pleasant, for people talked and suitors 
came in troops. So I went abroad. Yester- 
day I arrived in America again. I know noth- 
ing of this city, and yielding to my maid’s 


THE PRINCESS IN' DISGUISE. 


39 


advice I went to the Adams Hotel. That was 
in the early afternoon. My trunks were to 
follow me this morning. Fatigued with the 
worry of landing and the waiting for customs 
officers, and feeling the approach of a sick 
headache, I retired. About six o’clock I 
awoke refreshed to find that my maid had dis- 
appeared with my clothing, my hand-baggage 
and all my money. She had left me what I 
now wear, which I was forced to put on. The 
clerk of the hotel very impudently discredited 
my story ; said that my mistress had paid the 
bill and gone, and that I was to follow her to 
the St. Cloud. He added, moreover, that two 
games of the kind in one day were more than 
he could stand. I was not clear as to his 
meaning, but I understood him to refer to 
some man who had attempted to impose upon 
the house earlier in the day with a similar 
story.” 

“Yes, that was me,” groaned Mr. Drane, 
ungrammatically. 

In sfteer desperation,” continued the hapless 
widow, “ I went to the St. Cloud, but, of 


40 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


course, found no trace of my maid. Since 
then I have wandered about most of the time 
in this park, supperless, sleepless and, until you 
interposed, friendless.” 

“Madam,” said Mr. Drane, when she had. 
finished, “your tale is most interesting.” 

“ And a clever fabrication, I suppose ?” she 
added, sadly. 

“No, madam, I do not say that,” he ex- 
claimed, in confusion, for he was struggling 
hard to believe it. “ I am not a widower, and 
I have not been robbed by my valet, but other- 
wise I am in a situation to trust your account 
of your career implicitly. Somebody has taken 
my clothing, my money, my credit, my name, 
my identity from me, and — ” 

“ Hush !” whispered the widow ; “ here 

comes the officer again. Let us be off before 
he speaks to us.” 

As they walked into the street, and so out of 
the “sparrow-chaser’s” territory, Mr. Drane’s 
feelings, which had been somewhat stirred by 
his companion’s recital, sank again to a level 
with his condition. 


THE PRINCESS IN DISGUISE. 


' 41 


“ What in the world shall we do ?” he asked- 
“ I’m hungry.” 

“ So am I,” said the widow. “ I don’t know 
which way to turn.” 

At this moment hurried footsteps behind 
them caused them to face about. A young 



man in evening dress and a black eye was com- 
ing up with a policeman. 

“ That’s the fellow !” exclaimed the young 
man, pointing at Mr. Drane. “ I charge him 
with unprovoked assault.” 

Mr. Drane’s heart went into his boots at the 


i2 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


prospect of fresh humiliation, but before he 
oould utter a word the policeman had snapped 
an iron ring over his wrist and had said, 
oughly : 

“ Come now, step lively !” 

Dazed, mortified, crushed, Mr. Drane could 
neither speak nor move, and the policeman 
drew back his club to persuade him into mo- 
tion, but the blow did not reach him. It raised 
a cruel welt on the young widow’s \vrist, and 
her voice trembled with pain and indignation 
as she said : 

“Do not take this gentleman, Mr. Officer! 
He was at fault only in defending me against 
that man’s insults. Please let him £o.” 

“ That’s nonsense, of course, Tom,” said he 
of the black eye. “The fellow tried to rob me.” 

“Come now, get a move on,” commanded 
the policeman, giving Mr. Drane an uncom- 
fortable poke in the small of the back with his 
club. Mr. Drane stumbled forward, trying to 
tell his unhappy companion to pay no atten- 
tion to him, when she once more interposed, 
seizing the policeman by his club arm and im- 


THE PRINCESS IN' DISGUISE. 


43 


ploring him to free the prisoner. The police- 
man shook himself free, prodded Mr. Drane 
again, and said to the young woman : 

“ Will you clear out now?” 

“ No ! I won’t !” she cried, and she stamped 
her foot imperiously. “ That gentleman de- 
fended me, and I won’t see him wronged. So 
there !” 

The policeman replied by rapping smartly 
on the walk with his club, and hardly had he 
ceased when another blue-coat appeared. 

“Take the young woman in, Charley,” said 
the first, laconically. 

“ This is an outrage !” exclaimed Mr. Drane, 
and then that quick, dismal philosophy re- 
curred to him and he saw that it was all per- 
fectly natural. Another poke and a warning 
from the policeman showed him that it was 
folly to resist. So the five marched up Broad- 
way to the nearest station house. Mr. Drane 
wrathful and silent, the widow indignant and 
tearful, and he of the black eye sullen and 
vengeful. 


44 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


CHAPTER III. 

A SCOTCH VERDICT. 

Arrived at a police station the party marched 
in and halted in front of a big counter behind 
which sat a benignant-looking man reading a 
book. Drane saw that it was a volume of 
Shakespeare, and he felt a dim hope that this 
man at least would prove to be kind and trust- 
ing. He did not know the New York police- 
men, though he was scraping acquaintance with 
the species faster than he really cared to. The 
man at the desk continued to read until he had 
come to a convenient stopping place when he 
took up a pen, looked at Drane and asked : 

“ What’s your name ?” 

It flashed over poor Lawrence that all the 
reporters in town would write up his adven- 
tures, that the accounts would be telegraphed 
to Western newspapers, and that a full meas- 


A SCOTCH VERDICT. 


45 


ure of disgraceful notoriety would be heaped 
upon him. So, “Tom Jones,” he replied at 
hazard. The benignant man’s face wrinkled 
into an incredulous sneer, but he put the name 
down without a word Then, “ Where do you 
live ?” he demanded. 

“ Kansas City,” faltered Lawrence, utterly at 
a loss to carry on his fiction, and when he was 
questioned as to his business he hung his head 
in despair. His garments would belie his 
claim to be a gentleman ; for the same reason 
he could not explain that he was charged with 
enlisting Boston capital in the interest of a new 
railroad, a commission that he had undertaken 
more for the sake of diversion than for any 
need of money-making, and in a fair frenzy of 
misery he blurted out : 

“ I haven’t any business !” 

“ Umph ! walking gent, I suppose,” said the 
man at the big desk. “ What were you doing 
with this man and woman ?” 

The young lady at once began a protest and 
explanation, which was checked by the officer 
in charge of her, who growled : 


46 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


“ Say, yous, will you keep quiet until you’re 
asked to say something ?” 

The accuser declared that Drane had as- 
saulted him and tried to rob him. 

“ Lock him up,” said the benignant man, 
drily ; and the obedient policeman conducted 
Lawrence to a cell. As he passed through the 
doorway he heard the young lady sobbing bit- 
terly. Walking down the corridor he repressed 
the tremendous resentment that raged within 
him, but as soon as the key was turned he 
addressed his conductor : 

“ I wish you’d let me have a word with you.” 

The officer paused. Drane had intended to 
tell his story, hoping to convince his jailor, if 
not of his innocence, that at least there was a 
grave error in the proceedings somewhere, but 
his feelings overpowered him. 

“ I’d have you understand,” he exclaimed, 
V ^ iat you don’t know whom you are dealing 
with. I could buy this house fifty times over 
and not feel it ! My reputation never has been 
questioned, and somebody will suffer for this 
Why—” 


A SCOTCH VERDICT. 


47 


“Oh, rats!” interrupted the jailor, and he 
walked away. There is no phrase in polite or 
vulgar literature that compresses so much con- 
tempt into so small a space as that one word 
“ Rats !” It is unanswerable, complete, de- 
pressing. As Lawrence listened to his jailor’s 
retreating footsteps his resentment turned to 
disgust. 

“ That just shows,” he thought, “ how ill- 
fitted I am for these clothes. If I had been 
brought up to wear them I should have known 
how to express myself adequately. Some 
really shocking language might have had an 
effect on that fellow.” 

Then for four mortal hours Lawrence rumi- 
nated on visions of penal servitude, balls and 
chains, breaking rocks, stories of galley slaves ; 
and he wondered whether much famed Sing 
Sing would be better ventilated than his pre- 
sent quarters. He took one little comfort in 
his gruesome reflections — he could at least de- 
pend on something to eat as long as the 
Government should be his host. There was 
no breakfast for him, however, and when at 


48 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


last he was marched to Jefferson Market court 
he was in that state of faintness that he would 
have walked willingly many miles had the 
officers required it. Without realizing how 
time had passed, or what had happened, he 
found himself one of a nondescript company 
shut in by an iron railing. The audience room 
was crowded with spectators, and in the en- 
closure where he stood were policemen, lawyers 
and reporters. Lawrence shrunk as close as he 
could against the wall and gave way to pro- 
found discouragement. 

“Well, pard,” said a low voice at his side, 
“you seem to have struck it rough this time.” 

Drane saw a man in rags more loathsome 
than his own, with rum-bloated features leer- 
ing at him sympathetically. 

You have the advantage of me, sir,” he re- 
sponded, haughtily. 

“ I guess not,” said the other, with a dread- 
ful smile. “ That ain’t to say that I knows ye, 
that I ever had the honor of ’sociatin’ with ye, 
but I recognize the fraternity wherever I 
comes across ’em, see ?” 


A SCOTCH VERDICT. 


49 


Drane shuddered. 

“ I'm goin’ to take a vacation at the island,” 
continued the other, cheerfully. “Got kind o’ 
tired walkin’, an’ need to rest up. Spect to go 
up for long ?” 

“ I don’t know what they will do with me,” 
replied Drane, “ and I don’t want to talk with 
you.” 

“ All right, all right,” said the ragamuffin, 
“ only if you ain’t used to this business you’ll 
find ’fore long that it’s useful to make friends 
wherever you can pick ’em up. No tellin’ 
what a man might do for you, see ?” 

Lawrence turned away, feeling in his disgust a 
forlorn conviction that the fellow was probably 
right. At the other side of the court where 
several women prisoners were grouped, he saw 
the young lady whose misfortune had had so 
much to do with bringing him there. He 
started at once to go over and speak to her, 
and of course a policeman prevented him. He 
saw that shewas speakingeagerly with an elderly 
lady who stood on the other side of the rail. 

“ She at least has found a friend,” thought 


50 


THE VICTIM OF HlS CLOTHES. 


Drane, and so it proved, for in a few minutes 
she was called before the judge, and the elderly 
lady stood up with her at the bar. There was 
a brief conversation which Lawrence could 
not hear, and then both women stepped down 
and passed through the gate into the audience 
room. They were on the way out of the court, 
but the young lady paused a moment and 
looked inquiringly back. Lawrence caught 
her eye and bowed. She returned the saluta- 
tion and hurriedly whispered to her companion. 
The latter raised a pair of glasses, beautifully 
framed and handled in ebony, to her eyes and 
scrutinized Drane keenly. Then she shook her 
head decidedly and passed out. 

“Oh, yes, go on,” thought Lawrence, “he’s 
a bad case, of course. Look at his clothes and 
his villainous face !” 

The young lady’s face was grave with dis- 
appointment, but just as the door was closing 
on her she threw back at him a smile which 
made the unhappy prisoner’s heart bound. 

“ She’s trying to tell me to be hopeful,” he 
thought, “ and so I will, by Jove !” 


A SCOTCH VERDICT. 


51 


For a full minute after that he felt con- 
vinced that somehow all would go well with 
him; but this uplifting of his" soul was tran- 
sient. He soon relapsed into a dull, faint in- 
difference, paying no attention whatever to the 
trial of cases constantly going on before him. 
He did not hear the crier call out twice: 
“Thomas Jones,” and he did not half compre- 
hend what was up when an officer seized him 
by the shoulder roughly, saying: 

“ Here, come along ! why don’t you stand 
up when you’re called ?” 

In the little delay that thus ensued another 
case was crowded before the judge. Lawrence, 
standing at the bar, tried to listen. He caught 
some words about “ common vagabond,” and 
“ stale beer gang,” but he could not understand 
it all. Presently, however, the prisoner on 
trial turned to him and Lawrence recognized 
his recent acquaintance, the ragamuffin. 

“ I’ve got ten days,” he said, smiling com- 
placently. The fellow shuffled off, and Law- 
rence looked up just in time to catch the 
judge’s eye as the formal question was put: 


52 


THE VICTIM OF IIIS CLOTHES. 


“ What is your name ?” 

“ Lawrence Drane,” he responded quickly, 
and then he thought — too late. The judge 
scowled at the document before him and 
glanced inquiringly at the policeman. 

“That’s my prisoner,” said the latter, “ he 
gave a different name at the station-house.” 

“ What do you mean,” demanded the judge, 
“ by giving one name at the station and an- 
other one here ?” 

“ I — I didn’t want to be known, your 
honor,” stammered Lawrence. 

“No, I suppose not,” snapped the judge 
“ well, what is it, Jones, or the other name ?” 

“Jones is right,” replied Lawrence, realizing 
gloomily that another hope that he had cher- 
ished slightly, that of convincing a judge, had 
been shattered by his blunders. 

“You are charged,” continued the judge, 
“ with assault and attempt to rob. What do 
you say to it ?” 

Of course Lawrence responded “ not guilty,” 
and then the judge called for the complainant. 
The well-dressed young man was not present. 


A SCOTCH VERDICT. 


53 


Therefore his honor reprimanded the police- 
man for bringing up a case without a witness 
and added : 

“ In the absence of a complainant, I should 
discharge this man at once if he had not tried 
to assume a false name. That attempt makes 
him a suspicious character. Hold him until 
three o’clock, and see that your witness is here 
at that hour.” 

The hours dragged along, the judge went to 
lunch, another session was begun, and at last 
“Thomas Jones” was again called to the bar. 
The complainant had not turned up, and the 
judge said, irritably: 

“You are discharged, Jones, but I warn you 
not to do any thing of this kind again.” 

“ But I haven’t done any thing wrong, your 
honor,” protested Lawrence. 

“ You’ll get into serious trouble right here 
if you’re not careful,” cried the judge. 

“ Here, you, get out ! Understand ?” said 
a court officer, pushing Lawrence toward the 
gate. Lawrence did understand, and with a 


54 THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 

feeling somewhat akin to relief, he passed 
through the audience a free man. 

“When once I get well out of all this,” he 
thought, " I’ll get the Legislature to provide a 
fund for supplying discharged prisoners with a 
square meal. I’d almost give my liberty for a 
sirloin steak with lyonnaise potatoes.” 



DISCHARGED FROM COURT. 


What to do tc get this desirable refreshment 
was a problem. He looked up and down the 
avenue a moment and then returned to the 
court-room. He inquired of an officer near 


A SCOTCH VERDICT. 


55 


the door about the elderly lady who had car- 
ried off his park acquaintance. 

“ I will at least .let the young widow know 
that I am no convict,” he thought, and he did 
not disguise from himself a hope that she 
would help him somehow in his straits. 

The officer told him that the lady came to 
court every day, exercising her charitable dis- 
position in assisting innocent prisoners who 
were unable to secure legal advice. 

“ But she won’t do anything for you,” added 
the officer ; “she draws the line at men.” 

Nevertheless Lawrence obtained her name 
and address, and set off to call upon Mrs. Bowers 
far up on Madison avenue. He amused him- 
self on the way by trying to estimate how long 
his vital forces would endure miles of walking 
every day without any renewal of the tissues, 
and by speculating as to what stage of starva- 
tion would be the most painful. Now and 
again he became dizzy and almost lost con- 
sciousness, which led him to think that per- 
haps he had compassed the worst part of star- 
vation already. 


56 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


Mrs. Bowers was at home and she received 
Drane in a tiny room which she evidently used 
as an office for her charitable work. 

“ Madam,” began Drane, “ I am in circum- 
stances so unusual for me, I am so faint from 
lack of food that I find it difficult to say what 
I wish to. I was in court this morning when 
you secured the release of a young lady — ” 

“ Oh, yes,” interrupted Mrs. Bowers. “ You 
are the man who went to her aid in the park. 
H’m. That was a very worthy thing to do,” 
and she eyed him critically through her glasses. 
Lawrence felt so oppressed by this fresh hu- 
miliation that he hung his head. Mrs. Bowers 
continued : “ I should not have expected it of 
you. I have made a long study of human 
nature, my man, and I warn you that you can 
not impose on me. So they discharged you. 
H’m. If you’re willing to work I will send 
you with a card to a wood-yard — ” 

“ Madam,” cried Lawrence, “ I never have 
had to work in my life ! I don’t ask for work ; 
I did not come here to ask any assistance of 


A SCOTCH VERDICT. 


57 


you. I want to see the young lady and tell 
her my story.” 

“Quite impossible,” interrupted Mrs. Bow- 
ers, placidly. “ She is young and inexperi- 
enced, and I certainly shall guard her against 
any vulgar imposition. You make a mistake 
in refusing work. I can read you closely 
enough to see that you will recognize your 
error as soon as you are convinced that I am 
not to be imposed on. Therefore I shall give 
you this ticket. It will secure you lodging 
and breakfast if you will saw wood. And in 
consideration for your defense of the young 
lady you refer t6, I will pay your car fare to 
the wood-yard. I seldom do this, never when 
I am convinced of a man’s character as I am of 
yours, but you are doubtless faint and weary. 
Therefore, here is the card, and here is a dime 
to pay your way on the horse cars.” 

“Madam,” said Drane, huskily, “you have 
done me injustice and given me pain that is 
worse than all the ills that have come on 
me since I arrived in New York. I decline 
your charity,, and you may rest assured that no 


58 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


extremity of misery will ever make me regret 
my course.” 

With that he bowed haughtily and stalked 
from the house, while Mrs. Bowers looked 
shocked and made an entry in her book of 
charitable work as to the evil pride that keeps 
some men from acknowledging the superiority 
and goodness of others. 


A TOOL AND HIS MONEY. 


59 


CHAPTER IV. 

A FOOL AND HIS MONEY. 

Drane had occasionally reflected upon the 
possibility of such a misfortune as had over- 
taken him, though he had never carried his 
imaginings to the point which the actualities of 
the case had reached. He had supposed in a 
general way that there were plenty of things to 
be done by a man in such a position, but when 
he ran over the list in his mind he realized that 
every course of action involved painful humilia- 
tion. He knew that there were many charita- 
ble organizations which sometimes assisted the 
distressed, and at other times distressed the as- 
sisted ; but he could not remember the names 
or addresses of any of them, with the single ex- 
ception of the Society for the Prevention of 
Cruelty to Animals. It hadn’t come to that 
yet, he thought, but there was no telling when 


60 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


it would. He had gone to sleep a gentleman 
and had waked up a tramp ; an equal drop in 
the next twenty-four hours might make him a 
chimpanzee or a cow. 

The thought was not pleasant, and it aroused 
Drane to desperation. Either that or his hun- 
ger stimulated his memory, for he suddenly re- 
called the fact that a gentleman with whom he 
had had some dealings by letter was in busi- 
ness on Murray street. He asked a policeman 
where that was, and the reply fairly staggered 
him. It was miles away. He felt that he 
should fall dead of hunger before he had cov- 
ered half the distance. 

He leaned against a lamp-post in utter wea- 
riness, and closed his eyes. Then he heard a 
woman’s voice behind him, saying: “I hoped 
that you would come to see Mrs. Bowers, and 
I have waited to thank you again for what you 
did to help me.” 

“When I heard your voice,” said Drane, 
turning to greet his acquaintance of the morn- 
ing, “I thought I must have died of starvation, 
and been admitted to paradise through a mis- 


A FOOL AND HIS MONEY. 


61 


take in the records. You can not imagine 
what friendly words are to a man in my posi- 
tion.” 

“And have you really suffered from hun- 
ger ?” she exclaimed, while the tears came to 
her eyes. “Ah, that is horrible! Take this” 
(and she put a silver dollar into his hand); “ it 
should be multiplied a thousand-fold if I could 
but prove my identity, and then I should feel 
that I had done but little for you. There, do 
not say a word now. I know that you will re- 
pay me. Oh, dear me ! there is Mrs. Bowers ; 
she is coming down the steps; she will be here 
in a moment. Hurry away, but write to let 
me know that you have come out of all your 
difficulties.” 

“Where shall I address you?” 

“Oh, dear! I don’t know; I can’t think of 
any place at all except that park where we 
met.” 

“That’s hardly an address, you know,” said 
Drane, trying to be blithesome, though Mrs. 
Bowers was bearing down upon them very fast. 


62 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


“I might try the general post-office but I don’t 
know your name and — ” 

“And it isn’t necessary that you should,” put 
in Mrs. Bowers. “ Come along, my good girl. 
He is not a fit acquaintance for you.” 

She dragged the young woman away, and 
gave her no chance to reply. Lawrence, half 
crazed at being thus interrupted, was following 



WELCOME RELIEF. 


them when a hand was laid upon his shoulder; 
and, as he turned about, the policeman who 


A FOOL AtfD HIS MOHEY. 


63 


had directed him to Murray street stood before 
him. 

“ Look here, young feller,” said he, “ I saw 
de young woman give you something, “an’ that’s 
enough for you, see ? Don’t you follow her no 
more.” 

Drane couldn’t abide the idea of another in- 
carceration, and he obeyed the policeman’s 
instructions with wrath in his soul. And yet, 
when he cooled down a bit, he perceived that 
his condition had been ameliorated to the ex- 
tent of one silver dollar, a consideration by 
no means to be overlooked. He had never 
till that moment realized the value of money. 
In the blessed thought that he could at last 
buy something like a square meal he forgot 
even the means by which the money had been 
obtained. Food was his one great need. He 
looked about him for a restaurant. There was 
none in sight. Away to the left was the ele- 
vated railroad. He knew that it would take 
him down town where eating-houses would be 
plenty, and he hurried to a station. 

An L-train at ten miles an hour is not rapid 


64 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


transit to a man who has not dined for two 
days. Before he reached the City Hall station 
Drane fully realized how badly New York 
needed another and a quicker system. Elec- 
tricity in a moment of excitement would have 
been the proper thing to keep pace with his 
impatience. However, the journey ended be- 
fore the tissues of his body had wholly wasted 
away ; and two minutes later he was seated at 
a restaurant table and had ordered just seventy 
cents’ worth of food. Nothing, from fish-balls 
to terrapin, had ever tasted so good to him as 
that soup. 

“ If ever I meet a hungry beggar again,” 
thought he, when the food had begun to take 
effect. “ I’ll treat him to a ten-course dinner.” 

The world took on a different aspect as he ate. 
He felt sure that everything would come out 
right. His acquaintance at Murray street 
would gladly help him out of his predicament, 
and he could laugh at his strange experience. 
With a tight waistband and ninety-five cents 
in his pocket, he was a rich man again as he 
strolled up to the desk to pay his check. Just 


A FOOL AND HIS MONEY. 


65 


there temptation seized upon him. He wanted 
to smoke. It seemed as if his longing for 
food had been feeble to his present craving for 
just one fragrant whiff of tobacco. 

“How much are those cigars?” he asked, 
indicating some which the man at the desk 
had just spread before a customer. 

“ Fifteen cents — two for a quarter,” was the 
reply. 

Drane reflected that a man so poor as he 
was could not afford to pay fifteen cents for a 
cigar when he could get it for twelve and a half 
by simply purchasing two. Overcome by this 
unassailable arithmetic, he laid down his last 
quarter, and in another moment he was enjoy- 
ing one of the weeds for which New York is 
justly infamous to such a degree as he had 
never enjoyed a good one in his life. But he 
was penniless again. 

He crossed City Hall Park with a firm step, 
and his head in the air. His woes were float- 
ing away in smoke; his hopes were high. He 
walked down Murray street and quickly found 
the number he sought. The name of Richard 


66 


THE VICTIM OE HIS CLOTHES. 


H. Billings, in white letters on a window of 
the lower story set all doubts at rest; and, in- 
deed, the man himself sat at a desk in plain 
view from the sidewalk. Lawrence identified 
him at once from description, and he felt that 
he was saved. 

Mr. Billings, however, was engaged in ear- 
nest conversation, and Lawrence, after staring 
at him a minute through the window, decided 
to walk around the block and give him a 
chance to finish his business. When he had 
completed the circuit Mr. Billings was no 
longer in sight. The rolling top of the desk 
was closed, and when Drane noted that fact 
his heart stood still. He hurried into the 
office. 

‘Mr. Billings has just left for the Grand 
Central depot,” said an office boy. “ He is 
goingon to Boston to-night. If you hurry up 
there you can catch him. Have you got a 
message for him ?” 

“ No; I wish to see him personally.” 

“ Go on,” said the boy, “ you want to strike 
him for the price of a beer.” 


A FOOL AND HIS MONEY. 


67 


Drane could not wait to reprove the youth 
for his impudence. He was in too much of a 
hurry to get to the depot. He learned that 
the train which Mr. Billings was to take left at 
six o’clock. It was then half-past five. 

When he had reached the street he reflected 
that it would be necessary to know where the 
Grand Central depot was, before going there. 
He had supposed that if it was “central” it 
must be near at hand, and he learned with 
horror that it was more than three miles away. 
To reach it on foot in time was out of the 
question, and he had not a cent. 

He cursed his folly in leaving Billings’ door 
unguarded, and was inclined to be offended 
with Billings for going to Boston. The world 
had turned blue again. He could see nothing 
ahead of him but another night in the street. 

For the next three hours he wandered about 
the lower part of the town, and at nine o’clock he 
found himself in front of the Pennsylvania rail- 
road ferry-house at the foot of Cortlandt street. 
Then the thought came over him like a flash: 
“ This road goes to Trenton. Bob Tyler — 


68 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


my old friend Bob — lives there, and he’ll let 
me have a thousand quicker than a wink if I 
can only reach him.” 

But how to do it ? Supported by a good 
dinner he would have started along the ties 
cheerfully, but a ferry was a different matter. 
How he regretted the extravagance that had 
left him penniless ! 

Across the street from the ferry was a little 
“high stoop” house used as an hotel. Law- 
rence had come to the conclusion that he must 
look up some charitable institution and ask 
for a night’s lodging, and with this purpose in 
mind he entered the hotel office and asked to 
see the directory. While he was consulting it 
a man with a concertina in his hand dropped 
into a chair near him. 

“ Hello, Billy,” said the clerk to the new 
arrival, “ where’s your side partner ?” 

“ I dunno,” replied Billy. “ Guess he’s in 
the jug. I haven’t seen him since the three 
o’clock boat this morning.” 

“ Going to play a lone hand to-night ?” 

“ Guess I’ll have to. I can do the dancing 


A FOOL AND HIS MONEY. 69 

all right, but I can’t sing. You’d better come 
along, Jimmy, and try your little song on the 
public.” 

Jimmy laughed, and it was evident that the 
offer was intended as a joke; but it set Law- 
rence thinking. The man with the concertina 
took a seat in a remote corner and appeared to 
be somewhat downcast. Lawrence approached 
him. 

“ Did I understand you to say that you were 
going to give an entertainment somewhere and 
desired a singer ?” he asked. 

Billy looked up with an amused stare. 

“ Can you sing ?” he inquired. “No foolin’, 
now. I took a feller on his word some years 
ago, and when he opened his mouth aboard 
the ferry-boat the passengers came pretty near 
throwin’ us both overboard.” 

“ I didn’t know that entertainments were 
allowed on the ferry-boats,” said Lawrence. 
“ There was a sign prohibiting such things on 
the boat I came over in.” 

“ Don’t worry about the sign,” said Billy. 

“ I stand in with all the night crews. Now 


70 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


can you sing, honest ? What do you know ? 
All the old chestnuts, I suppose. Give us a 
sample. If it’s very bad I’ll beg the clerk’s 
pardon, and you won’t get shot.” 

Drane was amused. He had a tenor voice 
of good power and compass, and excellently 
cultivated. He looked Billy squarely and 
sternly in the eye for a moment, and then gave 
him a short vocal exercise somewhat pyrotech- 
nic in its character, and concluding with a 
smooth, mellow howl in the neighborhood of 
high C. Billy and everybody else in the 
place jumped to their feet, but they did not 
run away, as Drane had feared they might. 

“ Say,” said Billy, slowly, putting his fore- 
finger on the breast of Drane’s coat, “that’s 
great stuff. Just do that a couple of times on 
board the boat while I knock out a little ac- 
companiment on the old concertina, and we’ll 
pick up big money.” 

Drane was elated. Here was his chance to 
escape from all his difficulties. He wondered 
that he had not thought earlier of using his 
voice to make his living. 


A FOOL AND HIS MONEY. 


71 


He had often been afflicted by just such 
entertainments as he now proposed to take part 
in, and he had wondered what would be the 
success of a really competent performer. He 
had no end of faith in good music, and he re- 
solved to give the ferry-boat’s passengers some- 
thing worth hearing. The time dragged heavily 
till twelve o’clock, when Billy said the cur- 
tain could rise. Billy was a queer specimen, 
and Drane would have felt very much ashamed 
of his society under ordinary circumstances, but 
now he only thanked his stars that the fellow 
was no worse. He was a great deal more 
ashamed of the concertina, and afraid of it, too. 

They left the hotel and boarded the twelve- 
o’clock boat. Drane was nervous. He hadn’t 
decided what to sing and he feared the miscel- 
laneous audience to the last degree. He had 
often sung in public, and occasionally in cos- 
tumed light opera parts, but he had never been 
so thoroughly and outrageously “ made up ” be- 
fore. 

They took their positions in the welcome 


72 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


obscurity of the passage between the forward 
and after cabins on the ladies’ side. 

“ We’ll have to wait till she starts,” said Billy. 
“ That’s the rule, and perhaps it’s just as well. 
None of ’em can escape after you begin to sing.” 

Drane shivered. “ I’m a little nervous about 
these new songs,” Billy acknowledged. “ Do 
you think I’d better try to foller along or strike 
one chord all the time and take my chances ?” 

“ Billy,” replied Drane, pointing to the con- 
certina while the cold perspiration gathered on 
his brow, “if you let that thing break loose 
while I’m singing I’ll throw you overboard.” 

“Oh, I’ll handle her careful,” said Billy. 
“ Don’t you worry about me. Go ahead now. 
She’s started.” 

Billy pushed Drane out into the cabin and 
then extracted a few wai]s from the concertina 
by way of prelude. When he had finished, 
Drane began the well-known air, “ Spirito Gen- 
til, which is suited to a high tenor voice, but 
not to an audience of New Jersey people re- 
turning to their homes in the dead of night. 
After the first few melodious notes had agitated 


A FOOL AND HIS MONEY. 


'3 


the air, an intoxicated citizen waked up with a 
start and shouted: “ Say boss, quit that and sing 
something we all know. Sing ‘ Annie Laurie.’ ” 
The inebriate started his favorite song in a 
voice much the worse for liquor, and both he 
and Drane were having a very bad time of it, 



MR. DRANE SINGS FOR HIS PASSAGE. 

when Billy, thinking it his duty to help his 
partner in distress, came to the rescue with a 
concertina accompaniment, fortissimo, which 
passed from one key to another like a gentle- 
man struggling with a series of epileptic fits. 


74 THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 

Several persons near the door escaped, and 
others were on the point of following their 
example. Drane kept his tune and his temper 
for about a minute ; and then, turning suddenly, 
he kicked Billy’s concertina clear to the roof of 
the cabin and fled in disgust before it came 
down. 

When he reached the bow of the boat she 
was just making a landing, and in another min- 
ute the gates were opened and he walked ashore. 
He lingered a moment in the ferry-house with 
the idea of apologizing to Billy and pleading 
temporary insanity, but that individual did not 
appear. The crowd surged off the ferry-boat, 
and hurried by Drane. One lady evidently re- 
cognized him, for he heard her say to her 
escort : “ Poor fellow, his voice must have been 
wonderful before he ruined it by drink.” 

Riddled by this double-barreled insult, Drane 
hung his head and made off up the street, 
which runs parallel with the Pennsylvania 
tracks for a few blocks. At the first crossing 
he turned to the right and passed over the con- 
fusion of rails at the imminent risk of his life. 


A FOOL AND 1IIS MONEY. 


There is no more dangerous place on the face 
of the earth, but Drane was in a condition of 
mind such that collision with a shifting engine 
would have been a relief to his feelings. 

A freight train was being made up on a side 
track, and Drane crawled along in the shadow 
of it till he came to a car which looked as if it 
might be entered. He was on the point of 
trying it, when a figure appeared from the 
shadows. Drane was about to run, but per- 
ceiving that the other man had a similar inten- 
tion, he understood the case at once. 

“ Hold on,” said he, “ I won’t hurt you. I’m 
looking for a free ride on this train, and so are 
you. Isn’t that so ?” 

“You’ve called it, boss,” said the fellow, 
“ that’s my game.” 

“ Well, I’m in with you,” returned Drane. 
“You know more about this business than I do. 
What shall we do ?” 

The tramp answered by deeds, not words. 
He pried open the door of the car and crawled 
in. Drane followed. The car appeared to be 
freighted with pig-iron or some other heavy 


76 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


substance of which very little made a load, for 
there was plenty of room. Drane and his com- 
panion found the most comfortable place they 
could in the darkness. To the former’s great 
relief the train soon started and ran with no 
stop for nearly an hour. Then there came a 
halt. Presently Drane heard a man stop just 
outside the door by which they had entered. 

“Jimmy,” said a voice, “somebody’s been 
getting into this car.” 

“Thunder and turf,” whispered the tramp, 
“ we’re in for it now. They’ll send us up. 
There’s just one chance for us. You stand on 
one side of the door and I’ll stand on the other. 
When they climb in we’ll make a break.” 

That was exactly what they did ; and as 
Drane happened to jump out directly upon the 
head of the brakeman on guard, they escaped. 

In the lea of a fence, a few minutes later, 
Drane was joined by his late acquaintance, 
whom he had outrun with ease. Two or three 
others struggled up immediately after. 

“ They’ve cleaned all the boys off the train,” 


A FOOL AND HIS MONEY. 


77 


the tramp explained. “Were hung up here 
for sure.” 

There was a hasty consultation, and from it 
Drane learned that they were near an old barn 
which was well-known to the “ profession ” as a 
harboring place. It was decided that the best 
thing to do was to put up in this place for the 
night. Drane fell into the line, and after a 
march across some fields, he entered the tramp’s 
hotel with the motley crew. 

Counting those already in it, who were 
aroused by the entrance of his party, there were 
nearly a dozen in all. Through a great hole 
high up in the wall the moonlight streamed, and 
in the circle thus marked out the strange com- 
pany sat down, and prepared to exchange some 
friendly gossip before going to sleep. 

“ I take it you’re new to the profession ?” 
said the man whose acquaintance Drane had 
made in the freight yard. “ What’s your name?” 
, Drane told him. 

“ Do you spell it just like any other drain ?” 
called out one of the men. 

There was some good-natured laughter at 


78 


THE VICTIM OE HIS CLOTHES. 


this, and then one of them asked Drane where 
he came from. He endeavored to sketch 
briefly and accurately the events which had led 
him to his present situation. He thought it 
might interest them. It did. They regarded 
him as a first-class humorist, and a liar of great 
natural endowments. 

“ Oh, yes, we’ve all been there,” said one. 
“ I was a gentleman and a scholar day before 
yesterday. It seems to me that I met you in 
Mr. Gould’s office. I dropped in to sell him a 
couple of railroads ; don’t you remember ?” 

It was utterly impossible for^ Drane to con- 
vince them that he was telling the truth. The 
more closely he stuck to facts the louder they 
laughed at the extent and variety of his genius 
for falsehood. 

“ He’d make a good delegate for the con- 
vention,” said Johnny. “What’s the matter 
with sending him to Pittsburgh when the pro- 
fession assembles ?” 

“ He’d represent all the liars in it,” responded 
another, “ in a way that would more than do 
’em justice.” 


A FOOL AND HIS MONEY. 


79 


u I cannot promise to go,” said Drane, “ but 
the first man of you who finds me in Kansas 
City and learns the truth of what I have told 
you shall have a hundred dollars and a chance 
to go to work.” 

“ I’ll sell my chance in that hundred for a 
pipeful of plug,” said the man who had put 
Drane in nomination for the convention. “ As 
for the chance to go to work, I don’t want it. 
I’ll give it away.” 

Altogether, Drane did not find this assem- 
blage of the unfortunate so interesting as he 
had thought it might be. He withdrew from 
the circle soon and climbed high up on the hay 
till the rafters were just over his head. Then 
he lay down to sleep, and dreams carried him 
to other and far different scenes. At first there 
were pictures of home, and then the familiar 
faces faded away and in their place came one 
which had imprinted itself on his heart more 
clearly than he knew — the face of the woman 
whom he had befriended and who in turn had 
remembered him. 

Through strange and difficult paths he was 


80 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


pursuing her. There was danger around them 
both. Suddenly he overtook her and tried to 
speak to her, but his voice would not come. 
He was choking. She seemed to read the 
agony in his eyes, for her face grew pitiful. 
He was dying at her feet. The hot sun cast a 
terrible red glare on him. It was descending 
from the heavens to burn him to a cinder. 

With a struggle he threw the hideous vision 
from him and awoke. The red glare was #still 
in his eyes, the choking in his throat. The 
barn was on fire. Already the hay below him 
was blazing, cutting off his escape. The smoke 
was like a visible demon clutching him. He 
groped to the wall and put his lips to a little 
space between the boards, seeking for air, but 
the hot vapor from within rushed out, and he 
could not breathe. 

The thought of death in that strange place 
crowded upon him — a fate of which those who 
loved him would never hear — his ashes scat- 
tered to the winds. Frantically he struck the 
board before him with his clenched hand. It 
yielded. Hope sprang up in his heart. He 


A FOOL AND HIS MONEY. 


81 


rained blows upon the rotten wood, till he beat 
it from its fastenings, and then with a last effort 
he forced his body through the opening and 
swung himself to the ground. 


82 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


CHAPTER V. 

A REMARKABLE THEFT. 

It is a mistake to judge wholly by appear- 
ances, for even Jersey mud was not created in 
vain. To the gentle, yielding nature of that 
substance Drane owed his preservation from 
serious injury when he came tumbling down 
the side of the barn. As it was, the shock 
was violent. He dragged himself with some 
difficulty to the lee of a rock fence and made a 
hasty examination, which convinced him that 
no bones were broken. There was a soreness 
in his throat and lungs which made every 
breath he drew seem full of three-cornered 
files, but on the whole he was in fair condition 
and able to walk, which was fortunate, as no 
other means of getting away were at hand. 

Before him was the blazing barn, now one 
mass of fire. He reflected with a shudder that 


A REMARKABLE THEFT. 


83 


perhaps some poor wretch had perished there, 
and he began to reproach himself for having 
made no effort to rescue those who had been 
his companions in misfortune. Then the rec- 
ollection of the way the flames had leaped up 
over the hay assured him that he need not 
charge himself with cowardice. He recalled 
the fact that he had climbed up on the loft 
and that the others had remained below, where 
doubtless they had been awakened while the 
fire smouldered, filling the barn with that 
smoke which had nearly been the death of 
him. 

A crowd had now collected about the barn, 
and he decided to go down and mingle with it. 
He did so, and the first words he heard were 
these : “ Some blamed tramp has set this 
barn afire. Every one of ’em found in the 
county to-day ought to be put in jail.” 

Drane did not wait to discuss the question. 
He took a hasty and unceremonious leave. 
For half an hour he plodded through plowed 
fields, and climbed fences, till at length he 
came to a factory of some sort from which 


84 THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 

several little branch railroad tracks ran to the 
main line near by. Freight cars were being 
loaded there ; and Drane, watching his chance, 
got aboard of one unobserved. On the top of 
a big box he stretched his weary limbs and fell 
asleep. 

The train was in motion when he awoke. 
It ran on for nearly an hour, he thought, with- 
out stopping. Then came a lot of bumping 
and switching about, followed by a prolonged 
pause. Listening, he heard a strange sound 
like the splash of waves. He crept to the side 
of the car and found a crevice through which 
he peered. To his astonishment he found 
that he was sailing on a broad river. A great 
city lay to the right, and it did not take him 
long to discover that it was New York. Ap- 
parently the metropolis was a hard place to get 
away from. 

The float which bore the freight cars was 
pushed against a pier. Drane stood up and 
stretched his cramped limbs. “This isn’t ex- 
actly a vestibuled palace car,” he thought, “but 
I have at least come through to New York 


A REMARKABLE TIIEET. 


85 


without change, as the time-tables say,” and he 
thrust his hands into his empty pockets. 

Travel by freight-car without a hand-bag 
has its disadvantages, and among them is the 
lack of water, soap, and a chance to brush 
one’s hair. Drane looked out through a hole 
in the side of the car and wondered whether, 
out of respect to cleanliness, he ought to jump 
into the dock. Then he noted the color of 
the water and decided that he ought not. 
However, he resolved to give an imitation of a 
good citizen making his toilet, so he picked up 
a piece of broken glass from the floor of the 
car, and propping it against a daub of black 
paint on a box he combed his hair with his 
hands, after which he decided that he was 
ready for breakfast. But the rolls and coffee 
didn’t come. 

By the exercise of discretion he escaped 
from the car and from the pier, and stood 
again in the streets of New York. Then came 
more wandering, more hunger, more perplex- 
ity. At noon he found himself in a park which 
looked familiar. He dropped upon a bench 


86 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


and tried to decide whether it was the one 
where he had sat with her. Then he asked 
himself frankly whether he would rather see 
her at that minute, or a sirloin steak with fried 
potatoes and a cup of coffee. 

“ I don’t know,” he muttered, burying his 
face in his hands. “ It’s a hard question. I 
must be in love.” 

He fixed his eyes on the ground and wonder- 
ed why he didn’t find a half dollar there. No 
doubt there were coins enough buried in the 
dust of New York streets to pay his way to 
Kansas City. Why couldn’t he find one ? He 
began to accuse his guardian angel of serious 
neglect of duty. She ought at least to throw 
enough in his way to get him a breakfast. He 
poked around in the little heaps of rubbish at 
the ends of the^bench with the toes of his de- 
lapidated shoes ; but his guardian angel ap- 
parently had no change to spare. He didn’t 
find a penny. 

The only article which differed from the gen- 
eral collection was a piece of pasteboard which 
looked like a theater check. It had evidently 


A REMARKABLE THEET. 


87 


been chopped very recently, for it was scarcely 
soiled at all. He remembered, with a sudden 
start, that restaurants sometimes sold tickets 
that were good for a meal. With a hasty hand 
he snatched the piece of pasteboard from the 
ground and read : 

“ This ticket entitles the bearer to one Turk- 
ish bath at Hubbard’s, No. 99 West Twenty- 
seventh street. An extra charge for alcohol or 
electricity.” 

This is th£ way that Fate takes advantage of 
a man’s position to insult him. It was not 
Drane’s fault that he had not washed his face, 
and it was aggravating to have a hint like this 
thrown out by an unfeeling destiny to embitter 
the results of her own doings. Drane was on 
the point of tearing the ticket in rage and dis- 
dain when his better judgment checked him. 
He reflected that a Turkish bath-house is a nice, 
quiet place to rest. It offers the greatest of 
luxuries on a hot day. True, a severely thorough 
bath is not a good thing to take on a too empty 
stomach, but still he was sure that it could not 
make him feel any more hollow than he did 


88 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


without it. He arose and began his search for 
West Twenty-seventh street. It was not far 
away, and in less than half an hour he stood in 
front of No. 99. A handsome building it was; 
perhaps a little too ornate, but eminently sug- 
gestive of luxury. Drane entered and presented 
his ticket at the desk. The attendant stared 
at him. 

“ How the dickens did you get this ticket ?” 
he asked. 

Then Drane saw that he would have to lie. 
He was determined to get inside the bath now, 
and a small matter of falsehood should not stand 
in his way. His moral sense had been gradually 
weakened by the evil companionship of his 
clothes and he was in a condition to stretch the 
fabric of truth’s spotless robe till he split it up 
the back. 

“ Look here,” he said, “ I am quite a regular 
patron of this place. You don’t recognize me 
because — well, to tell the truth, I’ve been on a 
hard spree for a week and have got pretty well 
torn up, as you see. I’d like to sober up here 
in the bath and then I’ll send out for a suit of 


A REMARKABLE THEFT. 


89 


clothes in which I can begin an era of reform 
by going home to dinner.” 

“Whats your name?” asked the attendant, * 
hesitatingly. 

Drane looked over his shoulder as if to make 
sure that nobody could hear him declare his 
real identity, and then bending over the desk 
he whispered: “John H. Smyth. You remem- 
ber the name, don’t you ?” 

“Well, I’ve heard it before,” the clerk ad- 
mitted, “ but I can’t place you.” 

“ Am I so changed by a single week of de- 
bauchery ?” said Drane, sadly ; then, in a still 
more confidential tone: “You must recall my 
name. I spell it with a Y.” 

The clerk smiled. 

“ I guess it’s all right, Mr. Smyth. Shall I 
take care of your valuables ?” 

“You are too late, my young friend,” said 
Drane. Somebody else is taking care of them 
in a way that beats the safe-deposit vault out 
of sight.” 

The clerk laughed and gave Drane a little 


OO THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 

key strung on a rubber band designed to go 
about the latter’s wrist. 

“Number forty-one,” he called to an at- 
tendant, who immediately conducted Drane to 
his dressing-room. 

What a delight it was to lay aside the rags of 
poverty ! When Drane emerged from the little 
room clothed only in a sheet, he felt as good as 
his neighbor. Even his hunger relented for a 
time, and he enjoyed his bath thoroughly. 

It was two o’clock by the magnificent time- 
piece which stood among artificial flowers in 
the great hall of the bath, when he returned to 
his room and his rags. His soul and body re- 
belled against them more strongly than ever 
before. They contrasted painfully with the 
luxury by which he had been surrounded. He 
sat in his chair with his head in his hands and 
groaned aloud. Faintness had followed the 
bath, and had been aggravated by the sight of 
men enjoying rolls and coffee, while they re- 
clined upon the divans in the hall. He almost 
made up his mind to order breakfast, and trust 
to luck to get away alive without paying for it, 


A REMARKABLE THEFT. 


91 


“ Here you are, sir, number forty-two,” said 
a voice; and Drane heard an attendant usher a 
man into the next dressing-room. 

“ Thank you, sir;” he heard the fellow say a 
minute later. Then he knew that the man in 
the next stall had tipped the attendant. They 
talked together a minute, while the visitor in- 
quired about the bath and the restaurant which 
was connected with it. Then he tipped the 
fellow again, and got more thanks. 

“ He has plenty of money,” of course, 
groaned Drane, “ why shouldn’t he give some 
of it away ? Why shouldn’t he lend me some ? 
Why shouldn’t I climb over the partition and 
negotiate the loan myself while he’s out of the 
way ? 

The rags were corrupting him. They seemed 
actually to talk, to suggest envy,, malice, and 
theft. 

‘“Get thee behind me’, garments of Satan,” 
he said, smiling bitterly ; and he arose and 
walked out again into the hall. An obliging 
attendant prepared a divan for him ; and he had 


92 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


no sooner stretched himself upon it than he fell 
asleep. 

He was awakened by the voice of the man 
who had occupied the dressing-room next to 
his. He looked up, and saw a well-built young 
man — so far as the sheet in which he was 
wrapped allowed his proportions to be seen — 
preparing to take the next divan. The stranger 
was about Drane’s weight and height, and they 
resembled each other not a little, despite 
the fact that while Drane was a handsome 
man, the other would never have been accused 
of any thing more serious than the possession 
of a good figure. One face was almost a cari- 
cature of the other. Drane could not help 
thinking how much he should have resembled 
his neighbor if his own life throughout had 
been like the last few days. 

The stranger ordered some breakfast, and the 
attendant drew up a little table, so that it 
stood between Drane and his more fortunate 
fellow-bather. In fact it was as near to one as 
the other. 

“ If he eats right under my nose, this way,” 


A REMARKABLE THEFT. 


93 


said Drane to himself, “I shall become a raving 
maniac.” 

A luxurious repast was ordered, and then 
the stranger lay down upon the divan and went 
to sleep. He did not awake when the at- 
tendant laid the cloth nor even when the lunch 
was brought. Some gentle shaking brought 
him partly to his senses, so that he was able to 
sit up and pretend to be awake, but when the 
attendant went away he fell back upon the pil- 
low and was asleep again in a twinkling. 

Then Drane’s stomach arose and read the 
declaration of independence. It would hear 
no excuses ; no reproaches of conscience. 
“ Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” 
was its text, and it argued in a manner not to 
be answered by the precepts of mere honesty. 

Drane stretched forth his right hand, and 
secured a roll. Almost immediately thereafter, i 
as nobody was looking, he possessed himself 
of the leg of a chicken. Being honest by 
nature he returned the bone to the stranger’s 
table. Other portions of the bird followed, 
together with sundry fried potatoes, and such 


94 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


like embellishments of the feast. Then he 
washed down his scruples with the stranger’s 
coffee, and went back to his room a better man. 

But then came the rags again, and not even 
the sustaining power of a stolen meal could 
keep him from temptation. He put on his 
underclothing, and then stood by the half-open 



MANNA IN THE DESERT. 


door, looking in at the detested garments. 
They mocked him; they said: “You’ve got 
to come down to our level ; you’ve stolen a 
breakfast on our account, and nobody knows 
what you’ll do before we get through with 
you.” 


A KEMABKABLE theft. 


95 


He shuddered and turned away his eyes. It 
wasn’t that his conscience troubled hinru No, 
indeed. He had left his conscience in the 
pocket of his other clothes, the ones the thieves 
had taken, and he wondered, by the way, 
whether the fellow had been able to make any 
moral use of it. But his shudder was caused 
by his disinclination to put on the suit which 
had no conscience in its pockets. 

So when he turned his head away the ragged 
clothes were responsible for it. Then they 
must also have been responsible for his noting 
that the door of No. 42 was ajar, and for the 
temptation which came of that knowledge. 
The first sin recorded against man led to cloth- 
ing, and Drane now felt the weight of a fearful 
heredity. He, too, would sin and be clothed. 

“ I wonder if his garments would fit me out- 
wardly as well as his breakfast fitted me in- 
wardly,” he muttered, and then laughed reck- 
lessly. 

Nobody was watching. He pushed the 
stranger’s door open a little. Yes; they were 
excellent clothes, to judge by the little he could 


96 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


see through the crack of the door. Dressed 
in that way Drane could establish his identity 
in no time ; and no doubt pass the whole affair 
off as a joke. Thus he thought, for the poor 
fellow was really half crazed by the perplexing 
experiences of the last few days. 

He pushed the door still further ; he was 
conquered. It seemed that he could hear a 
derisive chuckle from the rags in the next room. 
He scarcely looked at the clothes, but hustled 
them on, all but the coat, which he carried into 
the hall because a strange feeling came over 
him that he had seen it before. Under an 
electric light he turned a pocket of the garment 
inside out and read the owner’s name written 
there. It was Lawrence Drane ! He had 
stolen his own clothes back again. 

Yes, there was no doubt about it. The oc- 
cupant of No. 42 had been the original tramp 
who had accomplished the exchange in the 
hotel so nicely, and had afterward collected the 
telegraphic money-order at New Haven. The 
pockets of the coat were full of Drane’s 


A REMARKABLE THEFT: 


97 


papers. He ran them over hastily, and could 
not discover that any were missing. 

His watch and a considerable sum of money 
were there too. He wondered at this because 
prudent persons leave such things at the desk, 
but when he reflected that a thief distrusts 
everybody, and hates to hand over his plunder 
when he dosen’t know who may be watching. 

Drane was never so eminently satisfied in his 
life. The /clothes restored his brain to its 
proper balance almost at once. He wondered 
how he could have been brought to the point 
of entering another’s room, and he was shocked 
at the thought, though delighted at the result. 

He strolled through the hall and noticed that 
the thief was still sleeping. Beside him lay the 
remnants of the lunch. Drane would have 
been glad to stay and watch the fellow when 
he waked up, but he had decided to go out and 
find a policeman to take the thief into custody. 

There was none in sight when he stepped to 
the door. He stood there a moment, holding 
his chin in his hand, while refleeting upon the 
best course to pursue. The action reminded 


98 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


him that he needed a shave very much, and as 
the barber shops of the bath were so situated 
that he could keep an eye on the slumbering 
thief, he went in and had the last evidence of 
misfortune removed, and the unsuspecting 
wretch on the divan still slumbered. 

As Drane emerged from the building the 
first thing he saw was the blue coat of which 
he was. in search. A burly member of the 
force stood on the edge of the sidewalk, as if 
placed there by the hand of justice. 

“ How wonderful are the workings of 
chance,” thought Drane, as he took in at a 
glance the advantages of the situation. “ Mv 
luck changed from the instant my eyes rested 
on that ticket.” 

He decided not to call the officer into the 
bath so long as he showed no signs of going 
away, but to wait till the thief came out clothed 
in his rags, to meet a fate still worse. He 
chuckled with a mean satisfaction at the 
thought. His experience should have taught 
him to pity the poor fellow, but it didn’t. 
There can be no real sympathy between costly 


A REMARKABLE THEFT. 


99 


apparel and the habiliments of poverty. The 
brotherhood of man can never be accomplished 
except by putting all the world in one unvary- 
ing uniform. 

So Drane stood there waiting for his revenge. 
Suddenly there was a hubbub at the door. An 
attendant rushed out hurriedly and looked 



about. Behind him Drane could see the thief 
expostulating with the man at the desk. Then 
the attendants eye fell upon Drane. 


100 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


“Arrest that man,” said he to the policeman; 
“ he has stolen a man’s clothes in our bath !” 

“ Come with me, sir,” said the officer, laying 
his hand upon Drane’s shoulder. 

The blunderbuss of vengeance had shot both 
ways again, as is the habit of that antiquated 
weapon. 


IT PUZZLED THE JUDGE. 


101 


CHAPTER VI. 

IT PUZZLED THE JUDGE. 

While the little party was on its way to 
the abode of justice, Drane had time to bring 
his mind to one definite and valuable conclu- 
sion. His misfortunes on a similar occasion 
had been aggravated by his own injudicious 
utterances. He resolved to keep still this time, 
even if he had to hire somebody to gag him. 

It was little that he knew about New York 
except as to its pavements and its distances, 
and both these he was prepared to condemn as 
emphatically as would any reformer. He had 
not supposed that his second arrest took place 
in the same judicial district in which his first 
came to pass. By reason of his rehabilitation 
his nerves had maintained a fair poise during 
the short journey to the court, but when he 
saw the ornate tower of Jefferson market ahead 
of him and then realized that he was bound to 


102 


THE VICTIM OE HIS CLOTHES. 


appear before the same justice who had lec- 
tured him but a day or two previously, they 
fell to quivering omniously. Nevertheless he 
kept up appearances and entered the court- 
room with an air of dignified self-possession. 

The bulk of the day’s business had been 
cleared away, so he and his companion in dis- 
tress were summoned at once to the bar. 

“ What is this case ?” demanded the judge. 

“ This man,” responded the policeman, jerk- 
ing his thumb towards the ragged tramp, “ ac- 
cuses this gentleman of stealing his clothes.” 

The judge glanced in surprise from one to 
the other of the parties, and he looked sharply 
at Lawrence as if the face reminded him of 
somebody. Then he ordered the complainant 
to step up and asked him his name. 

“ Lawrence Drane,” was the cool reply. 

Again the judge seemed to be trying to re- 
call something out of the dim recesses of his 
memory, but the effort failed, and he composed 
himself to listen to the complainant’s story. 
The false Drane told exactly what had happened 
at the bath-house, not deviating in the slightest 


IT PUZZLED THE JUDGE. 


103 


particular from the truth, except as his story 
implied his claim to ownership in the clothes 
which the real Drane had on. 

“ Did you ever see the prisoner before ?” 
asked the judge. 

“ I think I saw him not more than three 
days ago,” replied the impostor. “ It was late 
in the afternoon and he had a skate on. I 
remember him because of these rags which he 
wore at the time.” 

The judge turned to Mr. Drane, who had 
been listening intently, and began the exami- 
nation in the usual way, by asking his name. 
Lawrence was vehemently moved to denounce 
his accuser, but he recalled his determination 
to control his tongue in this episode; there- 
fore he responded simply: 

“ Lawrence Drane.” 

A big scowl tangled the judge’s eyebrows 
and puckered up his lips. Judicial memory 
was again in process of castigation. This time 
the mental prodding turned up a clew. 

“ Haven’t yoq* been here before ?” he de- 
manded sternly. 


104 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


Mr. Drane’s conscience wriggled and groaned 
under the temptation of mendacity. He was 
immorally certain that a good lie would be 
more efficacious in the emergency than a 
guardian angel ; but his gentlemanly instincts 
revolted at lying, especially when he knew he 
was in the right. Moreover the angel was 
present in the court-room, though Lawrence 
didn’t know it and she had not as yet discov- 
ered him. Perhaps her influence had some- 
thing to do with inducing him to falter an 
affirmative to the judge’s question. The reply 
stimulated the judge’s memory wonderfully. 

“You tried to pass yourself under two 
names then, didn’t you ?” he continued. 

“ May I explain, your honor — ” 

“ Did you or didn’t you ? Speak up !” 

“ I did, your honor, but there were circum- 
stances then that justified me. I was in trouble 
and hardly knew what I was about.” 

“What possible circumstances . could have 
justified you in lying about your name ?” 

It instantly occurred to Lawrence that here 
was an opportunity to make a full explanation 


IT PUZZLED THE JUDGE. 


105 


of his situation, but so much trouble had come 
to him from such attempts that he renewed 
his determination to say absolutely nothing. 
So he responded : 

“ I decline to say.” 

This surprised and angered the judge and he 
ordered the officer to search Lawrence. They 
took from him all his papers, his money and 
his watch. They considerately left him his 
handkerchief. Upset by the indignity of this 
proceeding, he exclaimed : 

“ I will say and maintain that I am Lawrence 
Drane ! I live in Kansas City and am in New 
York simply on my way to Boston, where I 
propose to negotiate capital for a railroad.” 

“ Very well,” said the judge, dryly, and turn- 
ing to the impostor : “ What have you to say 
to this ?” 

“Why!” was the reply, “that I am Law- 
rence Drane and that this fellow is telling my 
story. Those papers and letters which you 
have will probably make the matter clear. 
Doubtless he glanced at them at the bath and 
so got his points.” 


106 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


The judge looked at the papers, but they 
failed to satisfy him. He asked for witnesses, 
and the attendants at the bath were sworn. 

“Which of these men?” asked the judge, 
“ came to the bath in good clothes, and which 
one in rags ?” 

“ I remember,” said the witness, hesitating, 
“ that I took a fellow in those rags to a room, 
and I think it was that one,” pointing to Law- 
rence. “When he was in the sweating room,” 
he continued, “he looked just about like any- 
body else.” 

There is an individuality in legs, but few 
men recognize it, not even attendants at baths 
who have unrestricted opportunities for obser- 
vation. The testimony of these witnesses 
made it pretty clear that Lawrence had left 
the bath with better clothes than he wore when 
he entered, but they could do nothing to clear 
up the question of identity. 

Then Lawrence requested the privilege of 
examining the plaintiff, This granted, he 
confused the fello\y in short order, by putting 
a series of questions designed to bring out his 


IT PUZZLED THE JUDGE. 


107 

knowledge of Kansas City and his familiarity 
with the business mission in which he pre- 
tended to be engaged. The scale appeared to 
be turning in Mr. Drane’s favor. Justice was 
still in doubt, however, and the court declared 
that it would be necessary to get some direct 
evidence as to the identity of each claimant to 
the name of Drane. 

“ I think, your honor,” said the imposter, 
“ that the people at my hotel can satisfy you. 
I should like to go there to get my grip and a 
decent suit of clothes. If I was better dressed 
my story would sound more likely.” 

Lawrence smiled grimly at this, for he knew 
too well how true it was. Things had changed. 
The clothes were on another man’s back and 
he in turn was victimized by them. 

“ I’ll send an officer with you to the hotel,” 
said the judge. 

Just then the angel appeared. It was the 
young widow whom Lawrence had met in the 
park up-town. She was in court with Mrs. 
Bowers, assisting that charitable lady in her 
work and at the same time keeping an eye 


108 THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 

open for her thieving maid, who might he ex- 
pected to turn up any time among the prison- 
ers. During the examination of Lawrence 
and the imposter she had been busy with Mrs. 
Bowers in another part of the room, and so had 
not heard a word of the case. It takes an acute 
ear to detect anything that goes on in a New 



HIS NAME WAS JONES. 


York court, even when one stands beside the 
judge himself. The young lady had chanced 
to see Mr. Drane’s face, and in spite of the 
great improvement effected on it by the barber 
and the radical change in his garb, she recog- 
nized him. It was not immediate, and she 


IT PUZZLED THE JUDGE. 


109 


was not altogether sure. She whispered ex- 
citedly to Mrs. Bowers : 

“ See ! is not that the gentleman who 
assisted me the other morning ?” 

Mrs. Bowers had recourse to her glasses. 

“ I should think so,” she replied, “from his 
clothes. I shouldn’t be likely to forget them.” 

“ No, no; I mean the other one. I must 
go up and see. 

Mrs. Bowers disapproved of this heartily, 
but the young widow took her own way, and 
presently Mr. Drane felt alight hand laid upon 
his arm. It was at the point where the im- 
poster had asked to be allowed to go to his 
hotel. Lawrence turned, and with a joyfully 
leaping heart saw the companion of his adven- 
ture in the park. He was never so glad to 
see anybody before, and forgetting his situation 
he cried : 

“ I am perfectly delighted to see you again.” 

Sfte was about to reply when the judge inter- 
posed. 

“You must not speak to the prisoner, mad- 
am, but you may come up here and tell me 


110 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


what you know about this man. You may be 
able to clear up this matter.” 

The young lady, blushing rosily and smiling 
at the thought of being able to give some as- 
sistance to her benefactor, stepped before the 
judge and was sworn, She gave her name, 
but in spite of all attention Lawrence missed 
it in the confusion attendant upon the bring- 
ing in of several new arrests. He began to see 
the end of his difficulties, and joy possessed 
him as the judge listened with evident belief 
to the young lady’s account of the park episode. 

“ And\vhat is the gentleman’s name ?” asked 
the judge when she had finished her little 
story. 

“Mr. Thomas Jones,” replied the widow 
promptly. It was the name she had heard 
Lawrence give at the police station. 

When he heard this Drane groaned audibly. 
The impostor’s face was lighted by a trium- 
phant smile and the judge frowned. The 
young lady saw that something had gone awry 
and she exclaimed hysterically: 

“Oh, dear! Have I done anything wrong ?” 


IT PUZZLED THE JUDGE. 


Ill 


“ Nothing whatever, madam,” said the 
judge. “You may step down. Now, Mr. 
Thomas Jones, you told me emphatically but 
a few days ago that your name was Jones. 
Have you anything more to say ?” 

“Your honor,” and Lawrence’s voice was 
ragged with emotion as he spoke : “ I see that 
I have been continually beset with my own 
blunders. I blundered in lying about my 
name, which is really Drane ; since then I have 
blundered at every step until I committed the 
last in declining to explain myself. I will 
gladly pay the expense of telegraphing to Kan- 
sas City. My # friends there will reply to your 
satisfaction.” 

“We will let you do that, Jones,” said the 
judge, “ but meantime I shall hold you, and if 
a reply does not come before we adjourn you 
will have to remain.” 

There was nothing for Lawrence to do but 
acquiesce and write his telegram as fast as pos- 
sible. This, after some judicial editing, read 
as follows : 


112 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


Sanford Drane — I am held in court on 
suspicion of stealing my own clothes and my 
name. Please wire the court at once a de- 
scription of my appearance and a sketch of my 
history. L. D. 

Then his own statement of his adventures 
was taken down. If this should correspond 
to the account to be telegraphed he would be 
free. Confident of the result he followed an 
officer to the prison, leaving the pretty widow 
sitting on a front seat tearfully listening to a 
whispered lecture from that expert character 
reader, Mrs. Bowers. 

The impostor, anxious to establish his case 
before a reply to Mr. Drane’s telegram should 
arrive, hurried from the court accompanied by 
an officer. They went to a Broadway hotel 
and marched straight up to the pompous clerk. 

“Do you know this man?” asked the police- 
man. 

“ Know him ?” returned the clerk, scorn- 
fully, “ I should hope not !” 

“ But you remember,” cried the impostor, 


IT PUZZLED THE JUDGE. 


113 


“that I came here this morning and took a 
room, don’t you ? I am Lawrence Drane, of 
Kansas City. You’ll find my name on the 
register.” 

The clerk examined the big book. 

“There’s a Mr. Drane here,” he said; “I 
remember him. He was a well-dressed man, 
and you — why, we wouldn’t let you in at the 
door if you didn’t come with a policeman. 
Besides, this Mr. Drane came from New 
Haven. 

“ Oh, Lord ! I forgot that !” exclaimed the 
impostor; “you see, I came down from New 
Haven on an early train. Why, I was married 
in New Haven yesterday !” 

The clerk turned away with a sniff of dis- 
gust. 

“Come now, whatever your name is,” said 
the officer, “ don’t waste any more time. 
March back to court.” 

So back he went, regretting at every step 
that his sudden prosperity had so enlivened his 
respect for cleanliness that he had ventured to 
take a bath. 


114 THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 

“ First I’ve taken for years,” he muttered, 
“and it serves me right. Got on well enough 
without.” 

There were a lot of late arrivals at Jefferson 
Market that day, and it was six o’clock before 
the court was ready to adjourn. Mrs. Bowers 
and the fair widow were still there, the former 
staying against her will at the earnest solicita- 
tion of the latter. She was sadly disturbed at 
having failed so signally to aid her benefactor, 
and was anxious to learn the result of the in- 
quiry. Just in the nick of time, as it seemed 
to her, a messenger boy crawled into the room 
and demanded with amazing indifference : 

“ Is de judge here ?” 

The judge relieved the boy of his despatch, 
and addressed a remark to him which sent him 
out of court several thousand times faster than 
he came in. The two claimants to the name 
of Drane were already at the bar. The judge 
read the telegram silently, coughed, read it 
again, and remarked : 

“ This does not seem to help matters for 
either of you.” 


IT PUZZLED THE JUDGE. 


115 


Then he read the despatch aloud : 

The Judge, Jefferson Market Court, New 
York : If Lawrence Drane is in your charge 
please hold him. He is undoubtedly insane. 

“ Sanford Drane.” 

“There is a vile conspiracy back of this!” 
cried the real Drane. 

“Oh, I give it up! I’m not Drane at all,” 
shouted the impostor. 

Thumpity-bang !” said the judge’s gavel, an- 
grily, and the judge himself added : 

“The court believes you are both demented. 
I shall commit you both to an asylum for ex- 
amination and treatment.” 


116 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


CHAPTER VII. 

JENKINS’ RETREAT. 

Amid the sorrows in which Drane was again 
involved, he had one consolation — the young 
woman with thirteen millions evidently felt 
almost as badly as he did. He heard her tell 
Mrs. Bowers that the judicial blacksmith on 
the bench was “simply dreadful.” 

But this was not the best of it ; he heard 
Mrs. Bowers’ reply. Only two words, indeed, 
and as irrelevant as are most feminine utter- 
ances in times of emergency: “Why, Bessie!” 
was all she said, or at least all that Drane 
heard, but he was more than rejoiced. Her 
name was Bessie ! At last he had something 
to call her in his thoughts. It was the first 
hint on the subject. In his joy at this discov- 
ery he forgot to regret that he didn’t know 
the other half of her name. He watched her 


jerkins’ retreat. 


117 


pour her woes into Mrs. Bowers’ ear, and was 
satisfied. 

Such a spectacle is always entertaining, for 
when a woman has embarrassed a man by 
making a blunder, if she is not too stupid to 
see it, nor too proud to acknowledge it, nor 
too nervous to know what she is about, she will 
sometimes pity him divinely, if he is reasonably 
good-looking. And if she has begun to feel 
a little tenderly toward him, she will often 
accuse herself unjustly, in order that she may 
have the luxury of telling herself how sorry she 
is that she has put him into a difficulty. 

That was why Bessie now gazed at Drane 
with such angelic sympathy depicted upon her 
beautiful countenance. She said in her heart 
that her testimony had somehow helped to 
prove that he was insane. It was a question 
of the heart, and in such cases a woman never 
allows an appeal to the higher tribunal of the 
mind. So Bessie acted upon her first impulse 
and implored Mrs. Bowers to do something, 
no matter what it was. 

With Mrs, Bowers it was a question neither 


118 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


of the heart nor of the mind, but of the con- 
science. Therefore she decided to be merci- 
less, but just. It was her plain duty to protect 
Bessie from impostors, fortune-hunters and 
lunatics ; so she frowned at Drane in a way 
that gave him a chill to supplement the fever 
which Bessie’s tender glances had put into his 
blood. 

“Where will they send him now?” asked 
Bessie, shuddering. 

“ Probably to Ward’s Island, temporarily,” 
replied Mrs. Bowers. 

“ Will they be good to him there ?” 

“He will be cared for,” said Mrs. Bowers, 
sternly; “and fed — to a certain extent.” 

“Oh, my!” cried Bessie, tearfully. “Can’t 
we take him home with us? You have been 
so kind to me that I look upon your house as 
home now, you know.” 

“ I couldn’t think of such a thing,” Mrs. 
Bowers said, firmly. “ I can not have a lunatic 
in my house. It is all that I can do to look 
out for you.” 

At the thought that Drane would be sent, 


JENKINS’ RETREAT. 


119 


partly on her account, to an island where there 
might be neither pudding nor tea, Bessie de- 
veloped symptoms of hysteria which touched 
Mrs. Bowers’ heart. 

“ Perhaps I could get him committed to 
Jenkins’ Retreat,” she said, relenting. 

“ Where is that?” asked Bessie, catching at 
a straw. 

“ It is a private asylum up-town,” said Mrs. 
Bowers, “ where they care for mild but hope- 
less lunatics. I will speak to the judge about 
it.” 

“ Is it better than that awful island?” 

“It is a shade more cheerful,” Mrs. Bowers 
admitted, shutting her lips together firmly. 

“Then make the judge send him there,” 
cried Bessie. “ Tell him that I will give him 
ten thousand dollars if he will.” 

“My dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Bowers, shocked 
at the girl’s ignorance, “ there are only a cer- 
tain number of judges in New York, and you 
don’t want them all.” 

Drane had observed this conversation, 
though he could not hear any of it. One can 


120 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


not hear anything in a New York police court. 
The testimony of tearful innocence given in 
such places is heard only in Heaven ; which is 
just as well, perhaps, for it may get some atten- 
tion up there. However, Drane knew that 
Bessie had been pleading for him ; and when 
Mrs. Bowers approached the judge, the pris- 
oner realized that some amelioration of his 
condition might be expected. 

Mrs. Bowers talked earnestly with the ma- 
gistrate, and with such good effect that Drane 
was consigned to Jenkins’ Retreat till his 
friends from Kansas .City should arrive. As 
for the tramp, he went to be fed — to a certain 
extent. 

Mr. Jenkins called his asylum a “retreat,” 
advisedly, because it certainly was not an ad- 
vance upon anything hitherto existing in that 
line of business. Its exterior had all the sub- 
dued horror of a fashionable boarding-house 
where nothing thrives but gaunt respectability. 
Within it was even worse. An atmosphere of 
“references given and required,” especially 
the latter, filled the hall ; and through a door- 


JENKINS’ RETREAT. 


121 


way at the right, could be seen a tomb-like 
parlor, wherein upon the sarcophagus of a sofa 
sat the rigid images of two ancient females, 
evidently patients. They looked out at Drane 
with a cold severity that made his hair curl. 

He had come there in charge of a court offi- 
cer, and had not been allowed to exchange a 
word with Bessie, whom Mrs. Bowers had 
dragged away as soon as the question of com- 
mitment had been settled. He felt deserted 
and friendless, and despite the fact that it was 
a very warm evening, he shivered as he stood 
in the hall waiting for Jenkins, of whom the 
officer had gone in search. 

A large number of entertaining and cheerful 
reflections crowded upon Drane as he stood in 
the dimly-lighted hall. He wondered, for in- 
stance, whether a straight-jacket would be re- 
garded as an essential of absolutely correct 
evening dress in Mr. Jenkins’ retreat. He 
also had a curiosity to know how often, on an 
average, the violent lunatics in the establish- 
ment overpowered their keepers and slaugh- 
tered the less demented inmates. But, deepest 


122 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


and most important of all, was the question of 
supper, for the meal which he had appropriated 
in the bath had ceased to give him satisfactory 
support, and it might be a long time before he 
had a chance to steal another. 

Jenkins was slow in coming, and Drane got 
more and more nervous. He had an unusually 
strong natural horror of lunatics. Not that 
their presence is particularly agreeable to any- 
body — except a Jenkins at so much a head — 
but Drane was actually superstitious about it. 
He had a feeling that the germs of mania were 
floating in the air around him, and that he 
might break out with the disease any minute. 

He wondered at being left thus alone. A 
man who had been judicially decided to be 
crazy should have a keeper. Then he per- 
ceived in the shadow of the door a large, un- 
gainly man who seemed to be on watch. He 
stood in a kind of niche, and had thus escaped 
Drane’s observation when he entered. This 
man’s eye so glared upon him out of the dark- 
ness that Drane’s nerves began to dance in a 
manner that threatened to fit him very quickly 


JENKINS* RETREAT. 


123 


for permanent occupancy of the retreat. He 
felt that he must escape from that man’s ob- 
servation or relieve the oppressive silence by a 
howl. 

He compromised the matter by stepping in- 
to the parlor. At this, both the ancient and 



THE ROMANCE IN HER LIFE. 


unfortunate ladies assumed an air of modest 
reserve which was quite frightful to see. Pres- 
ently one of them drew out her handkerchief 
and began to weep softly, but with evident de- 
termination to do the subject full justice before 
she got through. 


124 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


‘‘Madame,” said Drane, gently, “ if my pres- 
ence affects you to tears, I will withdraw.” 

“ Do not do so on my account,” she said, 
“ it is not your fault that you have revived a 
sorrow that has long been buried in my breast.” 

Drane regretted having been the cause of 
such a joyless resurrection, and he ventured to 
murmur words to that effect. 

“ It does not matter,” she said. “ My con- 
duct must seem strange to you. I can hardly 
explain it without telling you the story of my 
life. There is a romance in it,” and she bright- 
ened appreciably. “ You shall hear the melan- 
choly narrative.” 

“ Far be it from me to intrude upon your 
confidence,” said Drane, endeavoring to get 
away. But she fixed him with her eye and he 
jank back into his seat. Then she drew a chair 
near to his and between him and the door. 

“You resemble him strongly,” said she. 
“The same noble features, the same soulful 
eyes, the same pallor, indicative of the same 
sad fate. Are you a genius ? Do you write 
poems of the soul as he did ?” 


JEXKIXS’ RETREAT. 


125 

Drane groaned. 

“I knew it,” she went on. “Listen. We 
were destined for each other. There was a 
small matter of property depending upon our 
union — but never mind. He seemed to avoid 
me at first, but at length fate threw us together. 
Returning to his room one morning very early 
he endeavored to enter the old-fashioned clock 
at the head of the first flight of stairs under the 
impression that it was the door of his apart- 
ment. It was the absent-mindedness of genius. 
Ah, well ! he and the clock fell down the stairs 
locked in each other’s arms, and when they 
picked him up one of his limbs was broken. I 
came to .nurse him. For seven long weeks I 
was his constant, his only companion. I 
read to him, I talked to him — and then — and 
then—” 

“ He died ?” i 

“No; he became a hopeless lunatic. I have 
never loved since then ; but now your face 
brings it all back to me. Excuse the outburst 
of my feelings.” 

She laid her head on his shoulder, and cried 


126 


THE VICTIM OF IIIS CLOTHES. 


into his collar. Drane could feel his hair be- 
gin to turn gray but he shut his teeth together 
with resolution. The other fellow had stood 
it seven weeks before he went out of his head, 
and Drane believed that he could last till Jen- 
kins came. 

In fact he did ; but it was a close shave. 
Jenkins was a tall and greedy man, with hollow 
cheeks and a cheerless smile. At his appear- 
ance the woman with a romance in her life 
vanished in charge of her companion, who 
proved to be the matron of the house. Jen- 
kins did not care to question the new comer. 
He was satisfied that all charges would be 
promptly paid, and he at once escorted Drane 
to an apartment on the third floor. Here the 
unfortunate young man secured some toast and 
tea, which, however, did not wholly sustain him 
against the horrors of the night. 

Jenkins made a casual inspection of Drane’s 
pockets before leaving the room. 

“You will excuse this formality,” said he, 
“ but the man who occupied this room before 
you, brought in a piece of rope with which he 


JENKINS* RETREAT. 


m 


hanged himself over the headboard of the bed 
before morning. We have had many cases of 
the kind. Good night.” 

This was a cheerful subject of reflection to 
take to bed with one, and it was still more con- 
soling to hear the key turned on the outside of 
the door. 

I believe that I shall actually go crazy be- 
fore morning,” said Drane as he stretched him- 
self upon the bed. It was insufferably hot. 
The windows were carefully barred and screened 
in a way which not only prevented the suicidal 
egress of Jenkins’ boarders but denied ingress 
to an adequate supply of the free air of heaven. 
After making this discovery Drane returned 
to his bed, where he was soon dreaming that 
the dangling heels of his unhappy predecessor 
were still knocking against the headboard. 

From this nightmare he awoke with a shiver 
of horror. He sat up and listened. There 
was certainly a strange noise in the heavy air. 
Sometimes it was like subdued voices ; then it 
was sighing ; and again it was a gurgling groan. 
For some minutes Drane could not summon 


128 THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 

up the resolution to investigate, but at length 
he arose, and quaking with horror he endea- 
vored to trace the disquieting sound to its 
source. 

It led him to a door which apparently sepa- 
rated him from the next apartment. What 
ghastly mystery lay .behind it ? He hardly 
dared to think. He listened, and the gurgling 
sighs made themselves plainly audible. Doubt- 
less some unfortunate was leaving the Retreat 
by the method Jenkins had described, and had 
failed to arrange his noose in an entirely satis- 
factory manner. For what seemed a long time, 
Drane quaked and hesitated, not daring to 
penetrate further into the secret. Then with 
a sudden resolution he seized the knob and 
threw his force upon it. 

The door opened easily. It revealed an 
empty closet, with a set bowl at the side, into 
which a thin stream of water was trickling, and 
running down the escape pipe with the noise 
which had so horrified him. Alarm gave place 
to wrath. He vowed all sorts of vengeance 
upon everybody who had even remotely con- 


JENKINS’ RETREAT. 129 

tributed to his present evil plight. Everybody 
but Bessie. He forgave her, and in thinking 
of her he fell quietly asleep, and was not wak- 
ened till the light of morning streamed into 
the room. 

Breakfast was served to such of Jenkins’ 
boarders as could be trusted outside their 
cages, at eight o’clock. After partaking of 
that frugal meal Drane was permitted to spend 
a little while in the parlor. It had no other 
occupant at first except a short, stout man with 
an abundance of stiff, curly hair, who sat at a 
table writing. Every time he paused in that 
labor he stuck his pen behind his ear ; and 
when he was ready to resume his task he 
piCKed up a fresh one, forgetting what he had 
done with the other. The consequence was 
that in a few minutes the bushy hair over his 
ear was full of pen-holders, and there remained 
only the one which he was using. Presently 
that joined the rest, and then the little man, 
after hunting about the table a few minutes, 
gave it up and pushed his paper from him. 

“The servants here are very careless,” said 


130 THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 

he to Drane. “They a 1 ways fail to provide 
me with pens, although they know the impor- 
tance of my work. And for myself, I am so 
absent-minded, do you know, that my forget- 
fulness has been the ruin of my life. It is 
true.” 

He leaned toward Drane impressively, and 
continued : “ I am a genius. I once wrote the 
greatest poem extant. Then I mislaid it. For 
months I searched for the manuscript, but 
without finding a trace of it. My cursed for- 
getfulness ! Then I tried to remember what 
was in it — my forgetfulness again. I couldn’t 
think of a single line. I could remember only 
that it surpassed Homer, Dante or Shakes- 
peare. The thought that I had thus cast away 
undying fame by mere carelessness undermined 
my health, until they brought me to this sani- 
tarium. Confound it, one might as well be 
honest about it. There’s no sanitarium about 
it. It’s a lunatic asylum, and for the sake of 
veracity let’s admit it. Here I sit scribbling 
away every day, trying vainly to hit upon the 
single inspiration which for a moment raised 


jerkins’ retreat. 


131 


me to an intellectual height no man had ever 
before, attained. Thus far in vain. But who 
knows — who knows! What’s your own spe- 
cial brand of lunacy?” 

“ I am a sane man,” said Drane, half angrily. 

The short man shook his head. 

“ Wait till you’ve been here awhile,” said he. 
“Then you’ll dream dreams, and see visions. 
I was sane enough, too, but the atmosphere of 
this place — you don’t know what it is. In 
two days you’ll have delusions. You’ll see 
things that aren’t there — serpents of various 
hues ; zebras with their stripes running from 
head to tail, and revolving around their 
bodies like the rings of Saturn. That’s why 
they’ve put me here. They’re jealous of me. 
They don’t want me to remember the great 
work which I wrote but can not find. It’s a 
plot—” 

The short man was getting violent, and 
presently an attendant came and removed him, 
to Drane’s great relief. 

In the course of that day Drane encountered 
several interesting maniacs of a mild order, 


132 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


but no serious incident occurred until the even- 
ing. Then, as he was standing in the hall just 
after supper, he heard Jenkins talking to the 
matron, and pointing to him. 

“ Paresis,” said Jenkins. “ You want to 
watch him carefully.” 

And Drane took that delightful suggestion 
to his apartment, and meditated upon it. Was 
it possible that he was really insane? Were 
the strange events of the past few days which 
he seemed to remember, in reality only halluci- 
nations ? 

Who could determine, if left wholly to him- 
self, without a single visible link between him 
and the past, whether that past had any real 
existence? In short, Drane didn’t know 
whether he was crazy or not. He watched 
himself for symptons. Did his hand tremble ? 
Or his heart beat too fast or too slow ? He 
enjoyed a nice case of hypochondriacism till 
long past midnight, and when he fell asleep, 
the zebras described by the forgetful genius 
were ordinary and reasonable animals compared 
to those which pranced through his dreams. 


JENKINS* RETREAT. 


133 


But the morrow brought a great event, no 
less than a call from Bessie. She came un- 
attended, but alas ! the matron was present 
during the entire interview. This not only 
prevented Drane from enjoying the conversa- 
tion to the full, but it also made it impossible, 



ESCAPED FROM THE KEEPER. 


or at least unwise, for him to ask her name. 
So he called her Bessie, and she made no ob- 
jection. 

Only for a moment in the hall were they 
able to be alone. Then Bessie hastily passed 
Drane a note, and a number of small, heavy, 
mysterious articles, wrapped in a handkerchief. 



134 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


He had barely concealed these things in his 
pocket when the matron approached. 

“ But your name ?” whispered Drane, hastily. 

“ I am here as Mrs. Lawrence Drane,” she 
replied, with a blush, “ Only the wives of pa- 
tients can visit them on ordinary days.” 

And she hurried away, leaving Drane in de- 
licious perplexity. 

In his room he examined the note and the 
bundle. The former proved to be an elaborate 
plan for his escape written out with the detail 
of a French detective novel. The latter was a 
great lot of keys of all sorts and sizes. They 
had been taken from the doors in Mrs. Bowers’ 
house, as the note explained, and were of 
course designed to open doors in the Retreat. 

Drane studied the plan of escape religiously. 
He noted every place where he should go, and 
the number of the particular stair where he 
must breathe in order to avoid detection. In 
some way Bessie had discovered that the guard 
at the door was changed at midnight. Drane 
was to steal softly from his room at 1 1 :56|. 
As near that hour as he could guess he stole, 
according to directions, having punched the 


JENKINS’ RETREAT. 


135 


key from his lock and opened his door with 
one of the bunch Bessie had brought. 

He crept down the stair keeping in mind the 
various shrewd details of the plot ; where he 
must hide to let the guard pass him ; how he 
must do this, that and the other thing which 
the ingenuity of the girl had devised. 

And now he stood at the bottom of the low- 
er stair. The guard was asleep with his head 
against the wall. This, too, was according to 
programme. Drane could easily have passed 
him to his place of concealment, but suddenly 
a new and simpler phase of the problem struck 
him. He coughed. The guard did not move. 
Then he went up to the fellow and shook him. 
The guard awoke. 

“ Here you !” he cried, sleepily; “go back 
to your cage.” 

Drane seized him by the neck ; dragged him 
to the parlor door ; pitched him head first into 
the room ; and before the man could recover 
his balance or his howls could bring assistance, 
Drane had opened the outside door, and was 
cavcling down the street. 


136 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES, 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A PRICE ON HIS HEAD. 

No sprinter ever made better time than did 
Mr. Drane in his first run from the Retreat. 
A medal at the end of a track is not half the 
inducement to speed that a pursuer at the be- 
ginning is. If Lawrence had been timed by a 
stop-watch it would probably have appeared 
that he had broken all records at the end of 
the first hundred yards ; and yet it seemed to 
him that he was not running half fast enough. 
The street was absolutely deserted, but he 
came presently to the corner of an avenue that 
was brilliantly lighted and lively with many 
passers. 

Then he stopped abruptly and walked slowly 
up the avenue for a short distance. His heart 
was beating violently with excitement and the 
exertion of his run, and he knew that he must 


A PRICE ON HIS HEAD. 


137 


get somewhere out of sight at once. Just 
ahead of him he saw that the street-car tracks 
entered a tunnel, the sidewalks and carriage- 
way rising over a hill above it. Believing that 
here lay his opportunity he entered the tunnel 
and walked through its half mile of length 
without molestation save from cars that passed 
him occasionally. The drivers and conductors 
looked at him sharply, and that made him wish 
that he had staid above ground. It also im- 
pressed him with the necessity of diguising him- 
self. 

At the end of the tunnel he found himself 
in front of the Grand Central Depot. If he 
could only take a train and go somewhere ! 
Instinctively his hand went to his pocket and 
then he remembered. The thought of passing 
again through an experience of hunger with 
its possibilities of police courts and ferry-boat 
concerts so distressed him that he had half a 
mind to return to Jenkins and confess himself 
a lunatic. Then probably he would be put in 
a straight jacket and be confined in a loathsome 
cell for the rest of his days. Horrible ! 


138 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


Suddenly he remembered that he had been 
in the habit of carrying a fifty-dollar bill in a 
little pocket unobtrusively made at the waist- 
band of his trousers. Most of us would have 
thought of that before, but Mr. Drane had 
passed his boyhood in the lap of luxury, and 
in his manhood had not escaped from her lead- 
ing strings until the beginning of these unhap- 
py episodes, so that the wherewithal was natu- 
rally the last element to enter into his consid- 
eration of practical problems. In this case he 
felt certain that his enemy, the tramp, must 
have overlooked that pocket. He thrust a 
trembling finger into it. Glorious ! He felt 
the soft but firm texture of a bank note, and 
he knew that he was saved. He marched 
proudly into the depot and inquired about 
trains for Boston. That was still further away 
from home, but he had friends there who would 
identify him and see him out of his trouble. 
A train would leave in the course of an hour. 
Good. How much ? Five dollars. .Very reas- 
onable. One ticket, please. 

While the strip of paste-board was being 


A PRICE OH HIS HEAD. 


139 


stamped Mr. Drane drew forth the hidden bill 
and unfolded it. Then his heart went down 
to hold sad communion with his heels. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he faltered, addressing 
the ticket-seller, “ but I don’t think I’ll go to 
Boston this evening.” 

The bill was a two. 

The tramp had been commendably thorough 
in his search through Mr, Drane’s clothes, and, 
having found use for the fifty dollars, had 
recognized the utility of an emergency fund 
and had limited his reserve to two dollars. 

Mr. Drane went out again into the unfeeling 
air of New York and wondered why it was 
that he had never been able before to see any- 
thing in the philosophy of pessimism. Still it 
is not often that some consolation can not be 
found in a situation when*a man has as much 
as two dollars in his possession. Lawrence 
found it. He didn’t want to go to Boston, 
anyway, for there was Bessie, the good, the 
beautiful, the soul-satisfying Bessie. She was 
in New York, and at the thought the atmos- 
phere took on a sudden freshness as if it might 


140 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


have blown across a garden of roses. Perhaps 
her little feet had pressed the very stone on 
which he stood ! Lawrence patted the stone 
gently with his foot and felt comforted. He 
would run the risk of courts and retreats for 
the privilege of finding her. 

Meantime how far would two dollars carry 
him ? He must have a bed and a breakfast 
and a shave. The bed cost him half his pile 
at a neighboring hotel. For prudential rea- 
sons he registered under an assumed name, and 
for once in this history no calamity is to be 
recorded as the outcome of the deception. In 
the morning a barber took off Mr. Drane’s 
moustache for fifteen cents, and a modest meal 
reduced his capital to half a dollar. Then he 
bought a newspaper and sat down in a hotel 
corridor to read and reflect. The newspaper 
was uncommonly interesting. Conspicuously 
displayed on the first page was an account of 
the escape of a dangerous lunatic from Jen- 
kins’ Retreat. 

The lunatic was supposed to be the wealthy 
Mr. Lawrence Drane, of Kansas City. That 


A PRICE OK HIS HEAD. 


141 


unfortunate gentleman’s friends had come on 
to take care of him and had arrived at the 
Retreat but an hour after the escape. They 
immediately resolved to offer a reward of five 
hundred dollars for his capture, and the pro- 
prietor of the Retreat supplemented that in- 
ducement by an offer of fifty dollars from his 
own purse. Then followed a minute descrip- 
tion of the missing man. 

Lawrence felt flattered, but still not happy. 

“ Every man but the millionaires in the city 
is looking for me,” he thought, and he glanced 
cautiously over his paper at the other accu- 
pants of the room. His blood chilled at 
once, for directly opposite sat a shrewd-look- 
ing fellow staring hard at him. The fellow 
had a copy of the same paper that Mr. Drane 
was reading, too, in his hand. He was evi- 
dently a detective. After a moment of agony 
the detective rose and came towards Mr. Drane, 
still looking sharply at him. 

“Now for a grand bluff,” though Lawrence. 
He nerved himself for a mighty effort, but the 
stranger paused awkwardly and said ; 


142 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


u Excuse me, sir ; I see that I was mistaken. 
I thought you were an old friend of mine.” 

And he walked away. Lawrence liked to 
have choked with the excitement and relief, 
and he felt that he would rather be captured 
than undergo such another trial. He must 
get away. Even his friends would discredit 
his story and consign him to an asylum. But 
how was he to move? Fie read the story 
again. It ended by saying that the gentlemen 
from Kansas City had gone to Boston on the 
midnight train, believing that Mr. Drane had 
fled to that city. 

Again his thoughts reverted to Bessie. She 
would help him, but he dared not go to Mrs. 
Bowers’ house. So he wrote a note to Mrs. 
Bowers inquiring if he might not call on the 
young lady whom he knew only by the name 
of Bessie, and trust to her kindness to screen 
him from capture during the call. It cost him 
thirty-five cents to send this note by messenger. 
After what seemed interminable delay the 
messenger returned with this answer : 


A PRICE OH HIS HEAD. 


143 


“The young lady you refer to has returned 
to her friends. For her sake I refrain from 
sending this to you by a policeman. You may 
not be insane, but I am convinced that you 
are a bad, bold adventurer. So do not, on any 
account, expect any further assistance from 
me. 

“ Emily Bowers.” 

And what did poor Drane do then ? He 
went down to the East river and wondered if 
some condemned fool of a hero wouldn’t rescue 
him if he should plunge in and try to be 
decently drowned. The men at work there- 
abouts didn’t look much like heroes, but ap- 
pearances might be deceptive, and Mr. Drane 
gave up the idea. It was but a passing frenzy. 
His native vigor returned soon, and it was re- 
inforced by the image of Bessie’s face that 
haunted him constantly. He would seek her 
if it took the rest of his life and cost him his 
fortune — when he got possession of it again. 

During the rest of the day he wandered aim- 
lessly about the docks and in the quiet streets. 


144 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


His hunger he appeased with a sandwich, re- 
serving his balance, eight cents, for another 
meal. The more he wandered and the more 
he thought, the more desperate his situation 
seemed ; but relief came from the most unex- 
pected quarter. Just as it was growing dark 
whom should he meet but the original tramp. 
Each made as if to run at first sight, then they 
thought better of it and stood facing each 
other. 

“Well,” said Mr. Drane. 

“Well,” returned the tramp, “you’ve done 
me up nice, haven’t you ?” 

“ Done you up ?” exclaimed Lawrence ; 
“ how about me, you rascal ? Have you read 
the morning papers ?” 

“ Read the papers ! Do I look as if I had 
read the papers ? If the papers were two cents 
a thousand I couldn’t afford to read a bulletin 
board, No, I’ve just come from the island. 
Your Kansas City friends said I was the wrong 
man, and of course they had to let me go.” 

Lawrence was on the point of showing the 
tramp the story of the escape printed in the 


A PRICE ON HIS HEAD. 


145 


paper, when a perfectly tremendous idea oc- 
curred to him. It was so great that his voice 
trembled as he said : 

“That’s good. Now, I am willing to let 
bygones be bygones. I am not out of my 
scrape yet, and between us we can help each 
other a good deal. Are you agreed ?” 

“You don’t mean to get me arrested for 
taking your clothes, do you ?” 

“Not a bit! You won’t come to harm. 
I’ll see you through and give you money after- 
wards.” 

“ I’ll have to go you. What am I to do ?” 

“ Change clothes with me !” 

The tramp staggered at this suggestion, but 
he consented, though he vainly tried to get 
Lawrence to unfold the scheme. 

“The only trouble is,” said Lawrence, “I 
don’t know where we can do this.” 

“ Well, I do,” replied his companion, and he 
forthwith led the way to a deserted rookery 
where they speedily exchanged garments. Mr. 
Drane put on the rags again with some revolt, 


146 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


but he was confident in the success of his 
scheme, and that nerved him. 

When they stepped out again into the street 
he asked the tramp where he had gone when 
he first took the clothes from the Adams Hotel. 

“ Oh,” he said, “ I played in great luck, and 
I’ll be all right if you get me out of this affair 
with a little money in hand. You see, I 
pranced around town for the day, and the next 
day I fell in with an old sweetheart of mine. 
She used to live in Buffalo, and she was poor 
enough then, but it seems that some time ago 
she went through a mock marriage that after- 
wards turned out to be binding.” 

The tramp paused and laughed gleefully. 

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed Mr. Drane, eagerly. 
“ What then ?” 

“ Why, you see, the fellow she married was 
thundering rich, and he went off and got killed 
just after the ceremony and left all his money 
to her. Haw ! haw ! haw ! And then, you 
know, I told her that I had got rich, too. I 
made a good bluff at it with your money and 


A PRICE OH HIS HEAD. 


147 


your clothes and she believed me. So we got 
married that very day.” 

“You married her?” gasped Lawrence. 

“ Yep. Married her as fast and hard as a 
parson could tie the knot. We went up to 
New Haven and the ceremony was performed 
there. As soon as it was over I left her there 
to come down to New York, pretending I had 
business. So I had. I intended to work a 



FIFTY DOLLARS REWARD. 

fine racket on your money, you know, telegraph 
to Kansas City for some more, but you spoiled 
that. My rich wife is waiting for me, I sup- 


148 THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 

pose, in the Beaver Hotel where I left her. 
You just put me in the way. of gettingto New 
Haven and I’ll be hunk and don’t you forget 
it.” 

Lawrence was overwhelmed with amaze- 
ment. He felt rather than saw the inconsis- 
tencies of the story, but it was circumstantial 
enough to alarm him* terribly. What ! his 
Bessie, so good and pure, marry this fellow so 
suddenly, and yet remain in New York, go to 
court with Mrs. Bowers — it was impossible on 
the face of it. And yet — He would have 
pursued the inquiry further, but that he feared 
to arouse the tramp’s suspicions. So they 
walked on talking of other things until they 
came to Jenkins’ Retreat. 

“ Now I’m going to work a big scheme 
here,” said Mr. Drane. “ You just keep your 
head and don’t get frightened a bit and remem- 
ber that whatever happens I’ll take care of you. 
I’m rich enough, as you know.” 

“ Blaze away, cully, I’m wid ye,” responded 
the tramp. 

Mr. Drane rang the bell. The door was 


A PRICE OK HIS HEAD. 


149 


opened at once by an attendant whom Law- 
rence had not seen before. 

“ Tell Mr. Jenkins a friend would like to see 
him,” said Lawrence, winking mysteriously at 
the attendant. The wink was understood, and 1 
both men were admitted. The door once 
closed, Mr. Drane whispered excitedly to the 
attendant : 

“ It’s Lawrence Drane ! you’d better grab 
him, ’cause he’s very violent at times.” 

The attendant struck a bell and instantly two 
other men came into the hall, seized the tramp, 
bound his arms to his sides with a rope and 
hurried him to a back room. He protested 
vigorously, declared that he had been en- 
trapped, and all that, but his cries made matters 
worse for him. Presently the attendant re- 
turned and asked Mr. Drane about the capture. 
Lawrence told an imaginative yarn with as low 
a dialect as he could muster, and wound up by 
demanding the reward. 

u We can’t give you the whole reward to- 
night,” was the reply. “ The five hundred dol- 
lars offered by Mr. Drane’s friends is not in 



150 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


our control, but you may have the fifty dollars 
offered by the Retreat, and if you will call to- 
morrow afternoon I have no doubt that you 
can collect the rest.” 

^ Lawrence reflected that fifty dollars was a 
pretty good price to pay a man for capturing 
himself, and that he was lucky to even get that. 
The money was promptly turned over to him 
and he left the Retreat after inquiring particu- 
larly as to the hour when he should call again. 

“ It’s a pretty hard trick on that fellow,” he 
thought, “ but he deserves it, and I will keep 
my word and see him safely out. And of 
course I’ll return the reward.” 

With all the speed he had he hurried to a 
Bowery clothing store, bought a cheap but de- 
cent suit, and then took the first available train 
for New Haven. 


VIRTUES OF NECESSITY. 


151 


CHAPTER XI. 

VIRTUES OF NECESSITY. 

At this point in Mr. Drane’s adventures he 
ought to have met the emergency with calm- 
ness and a ready wit. He had certainly ex- 
perienced quite enough of encounters with the 
police ; but, law-abiding citizen that he w^s, 
having an innate and cultivated respect for the 
guardians of the peace and faro banks, the 
more he encountered their power the weaker 
he was to resist them. Therefore, when he 
was hustled out of the good old parson’s study 
he went with a blind acquiescence to cruel 
fate, mens conscia recti , but very much cast- 
down nevertheless. 

In the hallway of the parson’s house, how- 
ever, he pulled himself together and demanded 
the cause of his arrest. The policemen were 
by no means willing to explain ; they really be- 


152 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


lieved that they had a dangerous maniac on 
hand, and Jimmy, the reporter, was on they/// 
vive to get a good news item and a reward at 
the same time. However, as Mr. Drane re- 
sisted, Jimmy finally produced this telegram 
from a New York newspaper : 

“ Rush interview with Drane. Man held 
here proved to be sane and not the right one.” 

Just one ray of joy shone against the dark 
background of Mr. Drane’s prospects in this 
dispatch — the tramp, improperly confined as 
insane at his instance, had been released. Think- 
ing of that as of one sin which had been for- 
given, Lawrence bowed his head and accom- 
panied the policeman out of doors. An officer 
was at either elbow and Jimmy pranced along 
behind. As Mr. Drane was very quiet no es- 
pecial attention was attracted until they came 
to the. door of the Beaver House. There a 
man was slowly descending the steps, looking 
vastly worried and out of sorts. It was the 
tramp. He had Mr. Drane’s clothes on and he 
appeared to be in hard luck. When he saw the 
officers and their convoy sailing down the street 


VIRTUES OF NECESSITY. 


153 


he stopped suddenly and looked hard at the 
prisoner with a wildly angered expression on 
his face. It was but a moment that the tramp 
stood thus, but in that moment his reasoning 
faculties went through a tremendous operation. 
This was about the substance of it : 

“ Hello ! there’s Lawrence Drane ! I stole 
his clothes and his name and married in both 
of them an awfully rich widow. He got back 
at me by stealing his clothes again and getting 
me in hock. He even inveigled me into an 
insane asylum. He is even now suspected of 
being a lunatic. Now I know that he is not 
only sane, but that I have been the cause of 
his misadventures. I further know that the 
Kansas City men who declared this morning 
that I was not Drane, will be here by the next 
train from New York and will free this man 
from all his troubles. He is tremendously rich 
and good-natured. D — me if I don’t do him a 
good turn.” 

This chain of reasoning was so speedily ac- 
complished that by the time Lawrence and the 
policeman were opposite the Beaver House 


154 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


door, the tramp had resolved upon his course 
of action. He ran down the steps pell-mell, 
seized Lawrence by the hand and exclaimed : 

“ Well, well ! to see you again and in this 



shape ! Fm delighted and everlastingly re- 
lieved !” 

“Oh ! you are, are you?” responded Law- 
rence, as the policeman paused. “ I see that 
you are at the upper end of the teeter-board at 
present.” 


VIRTUES OF NECESSITY. 


155 


He would have said more in expression of 
his bitterness, but the tramp interrupted: 

“ Officers, I don’t think you have any right 
to hold this man. I know him. He is my 
only brother. His name is Lawrence Drane, 
of Kansas City, and I am his brother John, 
come on to take care of him. I demand that 
you show me your authority for arresting him 
before you take him any further.” 

This, of course, was a stumper for the police- 
men. They had no authority whatever. 

“But,” said one of them, “how about that 
reward ?” 

At this moment a button in Mr. Drane’s 
Bowery suit gave way. 

Jimmy, of course, had explained the pro- 
spective reward to the policemen and had held 
out its terms as inducements for their action. 
Neither Mr. Drane nor the tramp knew ex- 
actly what to do. 

“Well, the fact is,” began Mr. Drane. 

“ You understand,” said the tramp at the 
same moment, “ Mr. Drane is not a crazy man ; 
he is my friend and relative,” 


156 


THE VICTIM OF IIIS CLOTHES. 


“ But,” interrupted again one of the police- 
men, “ that reward ? We don’t propose to stay 
out all night looking for this gent and the re- 
ward without some return.” 

And here Mr. Drane’s right knee began to 
peep through his trousers. His economical 
suit was coming rapidly and naturally to 
pieces. 

“Does it look very bad?” be whispered to 
the tramp, as he felt a seam in the back burst. 

“ It looks like bloody murder,” said the 
tramp, in an undertone; “and speaking of that, 
how do you think those made Kansas City 
pantaloons of yours fit me ?” 

“Tell ’em you’ll give ’em a check at the 
Beaver House at three o’clock this afternoon,” 
whispered Lawrence. 

The tramp knowing that Lawrence had lots 
of money fell into this plan, and the police, 
knowing that they had no authority, immedi- 
ately disappeared. But not so J immy. J immy 
hung on until the tramp assured him that he 
and Drane were going to the parson’s house to 
elucidate together one or two problems that 


VIRTUES OF NECESSITY. 


157 


were not yet clear to either of them. During 
all the conversation that this involved, Law- 
rence discreetly kept his mouth shut, and pres- 
ently Jimmy dashed off presumably to give a 
column of copy to his newspaper for the last 
edition. After this the two men paused on the 
sidewalk and Mr. Drane began: 

“ My dear man, there is something about 
you, in addition to my clothes, which makes 
me think that you are or ought to be a gentle- 
man.” 

“ Sir,” responded the tramp, “ there is some- 
thing about you besides that ill-fitting Bowery 
suit that makes me regard you as destined to 
better things than you have endured during the 
past week.” 

Then both men laughed and after that they 
shook hands heartily. 

“ I say,” said Lawrence, “what is your name, 
and how the unmentionable fiend did you get 
into a tramp’s life ?” 

“ My name,” responded the other, “ is plain 
Johnson, baptised Richard J. I was at one 


158 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


time a country schoolmaster, which may ac- 
count for my lapses into fairly correct English 
when I talk. Schoolmastering, I found, did 
not pay for a man who had acquired cham- 
pagne tastes on a beer income, and so I de- 
termined to travel. Experience of an un- 
usually severe nature undermined my convic- 
tions respecting meum et tuum , and I therefore 
descended to theft. But it is only fair to ex- 
plain that this descent in morality came from 
the fact that soon after I gave up school-teach- 
ing I went into politics.” 

“ Unfortunate,” murmured Mr. Drane. 

“ I was an alderman,” continued the tramp, 
“and I voted various franchises to railroad 
corporations and escaped indictment I never 
knew how. Then, having my hands in the 
public treasury, otherwise the people’s pockets, 
for two or three years, I lost all sense of de- 
corum and honesty.” 

“You are to be pitied, not condemned,” said 
Mr. Drane. 

So,” continued the tramp, “ I am not alto- 


VIRTUES OF NECESSITY. 


159 


gether bad. That, with your kindness, you 
seem to see ; but the fact is that if I had al- 
ways worn as good clothes as these of yours, I 
would not have been tempted to commit the 
crimes that have brought trouble upon you.” 

“That is doubtless true,” answered Mr. 
Drane, dubiously recalling his peculiar adven- 
tures ; “ but it was very wrong of you to take 
away not only my garments but my name and 
credit as well.” 

“Ah, sir,” replied Mr. Johnson, smiling, 
“it is an old saw that ‘necessity knows no law.’ 
But let us not waste time in argument. I 
came here to seek my wife, and when I have 
found her you shall be fully repaid in money 
for the misery which I have caused you.” 

They had been walking along indeterminedly, 
and here Mr. Drane stopped. 

“Johnson,” he said, “you are in a bad fix. 
Your wife is not only poor financially, but so 
badly off that she wants to claim me for a hus- 
band. 

Johnson opened his mouth wide with 


160 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


amazement, and as he knew not what to say, 
Lawrence continued : 

“ Whatever claim she had to riches she ab- 
stracted from another person, as you took my 
clothes. I have seen her this morning. She 
claims to be Mrs. Drane, and — ” 

•‘You infernal scoundrel !” exclaimed John- 
son, and he. seized Mr. Drane by the collar. 
“ Rich or poor, she is my wife, and if you have 
gone and got her away from me I’ll break your 
back and put you in the asylum again to boot.” 

Mr. Drane shook off his antagonist easily. 

“ Don’t you call me names,” he cried, “ or I’ll 
have you arrested for theft !” 

Johnson cooled down at once. 

“ Where’s my wife ?” he asked presently. 

“ Come with me,” said Mr. Drane, “ and I’ll 
show you,” and he forthwith led the way to the 
parson’s house. Just as they arrived at the 
door two men hurried up who greeted Lawrence 
effusively. They were relatives of his from 
Kansas City, arrived by a way train from New 
York, Johnson having caught an express at the 


VIRTUES OP NECESSITY. 


1C1 


same hour. The relatives looked at Lawrence 
sharply and seemed to wonder whether he was 
all right or not, but he refrained from explain- 
ing himself until they had come again into the 
parson’s study. 


162 


THE VICTIM OE HIS CLOTHES. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE REWARD OF THE WICKED. 

The Rev Mr. Knowles was nothing if not 
hospitable. When this uninvited company in- 
vaded his humble but comfortable dwelling he 
bustled about with genuine anxiety for tkeir 
entertainment. 

“ Dear me ! dear me !” he kept saying, softly, 
“ I have seen nothing like this since the do- 
nation parties in good old Podunk. I’m sure 
you’re all quite welcome. I’ve been out with 
the two ladies looking for you, but we failed to 
find you. However, we encountered a young 
man called Jimmy, who is connected with the 
press, and he told me to return home and wait 
for you. Now I do hope that all this quarrel- 
ling is over, and that you, sir ” — pointing to 
Drane — “have decided to be a man.” 


THE REWARD OF THE WICKED. 163 

“ Such is my present intention,” said Drane. 
“ I am getting a little tired of being a lunatic.” 

“You seem to have suffered some violence 
since you were here before,” continued Mr. 
Knowles. “ I trust that you are not seriously 
hurt. It often happens that harsh experiences 
of this kind are wholesome, and necessary to 
bring us to a proper state of mind. Indeed, 
they always are, if we could only see it.” 

Meanwhile the other members of the party 
were looking askance at each other. Johnson 
was beginning to realize that the new-comers 
were the Kansas City relief expedition, and that 
his own usefulness and opportunities were nearly 
over. He was meditating a quiet and inoffen- 
sive exit when he chanced to catch Nellie’s eye, 
and it riveted him to the spot. She was look- 
ing at him with a real tenderness of expression, 
and a certain admiration, too. Indeed, John- 
son in Drane’s clothes was worth looking at. 
He had an intelligent and not uncomely visage, 
which had been much improved of late by the 
effects of more food and less drink. And 
Nellie looked at him, thinking of the words 


164 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


which had joined their hands ; and she grew 
quite pale, but not with fear or regret. 

Bessie was pale, too, for she felt a very pain- 
ful interest in the scene. She knew that the 
strange men must include those who had known 
Drane in the West, and she took Johnson to 
be a distinguished representative of the family, 
whose words would be a full explanation of 
Drane’s mental condition. She tried to attract 
his attention ; to call him to her side, and ask 
him whether it was true that his unfortunate 
kinsman was unbalanced. 

Mr. Sanford Drane, the genuine, was the 
first to break the silence which had fallen upon 
the party. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said he to Rev. Mr. 
Knowles, “ but I really do not see why we have 
all invaded your house. Has this unhappy 
young man — ” pointing to Lawrence — “ had 
any dealings with you during his recent wan- 
derings? I should tell you that I am his 
uncle, and that I have come to take him home 
with me, where I trust that rest and medical 


THE REWARD OE THE WICKED. 


165 


treatment will restore him to the full command 
of his faculties.” 

“And is he, then, deranged?” asked Mr. 
Knowles. “Ah ! that explains much which 
had been dark to me. I fear that I have done 
serious wrong. I should have made more 



THE MAN WHO WAS MARRIED. 

careful inquiries before I married him to this 
young lady.” 

“Married?” dried Uncle Sanford, aghast. 
“Oh, Lawrence, I did not think your wretched 
'fate would have led you to this.” 

“ My very dear, but deplorably muddled un- 


166 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


cle,” said Lawrence, “do not distress yourself 
unnecessarily. I am no't married. This whole 
complication results from an inexplicable error 
of Rev. Mr. Knowles, who married this man” 
— indicating Johnson — “to that young woman 
in the corner.” 

“ Poor fellow!” said Rev. Mr. Knowles, “he 
is wandering again.” 

“ I am not wandering,” said Lawrence. 
“The fact is that this woman, taking advan- 
tage of Mr. Knowles’ error, now claims me as 
her husband because she knows me to be rich.” 

“Rich!” put in Uncle Sanford, “if money 
is all that is needed, perhaps we may yet rescue 
my misguided nephew from these perplexing 
entanglements. Young person,” he continued, 
approaching Nellie, and shaking his finger in 
her face, “ what do you want ?” 

“ I don’t want you, you old bear,” said Nel- 
lie, beginning to crv nervously, “not even if 
you’re richer than Croesus.” 

Johnson laughed. 

“Come, Nellie,” said Bessie, somewhat 
sharply, “explain this matter fully and you will 


THE REWARD OF THE WICKED. 


167 


do much to atone for your conduct towards 
me.” 

“ I did’nt know he belonged to you,” sobbed 
Nellie, “or I’d never have tried to catch him.” 

Here Johnson laughed again, but Lawrence 
blushed and looked foolish. 

“ I’m sure I had no ill will against you,” 
Nellie continued. In fact, I always loved you 
ever since I’ve been your maid. I was sorry 
after I’d stolen your things and would have 
taken them all back to you only I was afraid. 
I’m going to tell the whole truth now, and I 
don’t care what happens. I was not a bad girl 
to begin with, but when my aunt died and I 
had to get my own living, I became a servant, 
for there was nothing else to do. I couldn’t 
teach, because I didn’t know anything — ” 

“That is not always an impediment,” John- 
son interrupted ; “ I have been a teacher my- 
self.” 

“ I couldn’t write novels, as some women 
do,” Nellie continued, “because I’d been 
brought up quiet and proper and hadn’t seen 
any of these horrid, frantic things they write 


168 THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 

about. So I just got a place as a maid. It 
was with a rich woman in high society, and 
I’ve been thrown in just such company for 
years. It’s an awful strain on a young girl’s 
character to associate with such people. They 
make you do an awful lot of lying for them. 
And fhen there’s the uniform — the servant’s 
dress. That’s the thing that does the real mis- 
chief. It’s all the time saying to the girl that 
wears it : ‘ Y ou’re only a slave. What differ- 
ence does it make how you behave? You 
can’t go to Heaven in such clothes, anyhow.’ 
I got to thinking that I wasn’t as good as the 
other women because I couldn’t dress as well ; 
and so when I saw the chance to steal your 
dresses I said to myself that it would make a 
good girl of me.” 

Rev. Mr. Knowles held up his hands in hor- 
ror. 

“ Young woman,” said he, “ the obliquity of 
your moral vision is really shocking. Did you 
think that stolen clothes could make you 
good ?” 

“ Yes, sir, I did,” replied Nellie, firmly, “ and 


THE REWARD OF THE WICKED. 


169 


what’s more, I was right ; they have. Since 
I’ve. worn them I haven’t had an envious or 
wicked thought in my mind, except when this 
man discovered me and I saw the prospect of 
big cuffs and a cap again. I tell you that if I’d 
had another week in Mrs. Harland’s dresses 
not even that temptation would have been 
strong enough to make me do wrong.” 

“You have discovered a great moral princi- 
ple,” said Johnson. “ I too, stole a chance to 
begin a better life, and, I trust, if Mr. Drane 
doesn’t take this suit away from me, that I may 
yet reform entirely before it wears out. I feel 
better now. Already I have discarded the lan- 
guage of a tramp, and the mendacity of a poli- 
tician. A few days more and I shall be as 
good a man as Drane himself ; and Larry, old 
boy, let me tell you that if you don’t get rid of 
that Bowery suit before it falls to pieces alto- 
gether you’ll be a moral wreck. Every time a 
button falls off the finger of Satan is stuck 
through the empty button-hole. 

“ And as to this marriage,” he continued, “ I 


170 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


am proud to say that I was the bridegroom. 
I confess with shame that I married Nellie be- 
lieving her to be rich, but now — now — Nellie, 
I have nothing in the world that I can call my 
own. Even my clothes, as you know, do not 
belong to me. But if you can love me, if you 
truly wish to be my wife, I will do the best I 
can to make a home somewhere for you — for 
us — in which whatever dress you wear will be 
the robe of a queen, and I a humble, but a 
faithful subject always.” 

“ Dear Richard,” said Nellie, laying her head 
upon the breast of Lawrence’s late coat, be- 
neath which the heart of Mr. Johnson was beat- 
ing very hard indeed if one might judge by the 
expression of his face. 

“ But you forget, Richard,” she said, at 
length, “ we must both go to prison first. We 
cannot expect to be reformed without paying 
the penalty.” 

“ Well, I am ready,” said Johnson. 

“ My dear fellow,” cried Lawrence, “you 
need have no fears of me. I have too much to 


THE REWARD OE THE WICKED. 


171 


thank you for. But for you and your amiable 
wife I might have gone through the wide world 
from one end to the other, and yet have missed 
the one woman for whom my heart was wait- 
ing. Bessie (taking her hand in his), shall we 
forgive them ?” 

“ Indeed, indeed, we will,” cried Bessie, 
heartily. “ Nellie, I owe you a debt such as 
only a woman can understand, and — and — I 
can’t tell you how much I thank you ; but if a 
whole Saratoga trunk-full of dresses can serve 
as a symbol of my gratitude I — ah, you dear 
girl !” 

Bessie closed the sentence somewhat hysteri- 
cally and fell on Nellie’s neck. Lawrence, 
too, was overpowered with joy. 

“ Dick, old boy,” said he, “ cheer up. I’ll 
give you carte blanche with my tailor, and you 
shall wear as many suits a day as a society 
belle on a week’s visit to a watering-place. 
And that isn’t all. I’ll give you—” 

“ Only a chance to work, Larry ; it’s all I 
ask,” said Johnson. 

« Work ?” cried Lawrence ; “ not if I know 


172 THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 

it. A man who can’t find any thing better to 
do in this world than work is defective in 
imagination. I’ll give you a pension of two 
hundred dollars a month for as long as you 
need it — I— I — old man, my feelings overcome 
me !” 

And he fell on Johnson’s neck just as Bessie 
had done on Mrs. Johnson’s. 

There was a crash over in the corner of the 
room, and the voice of Jimmy, the reporter, 
was heard, saying : 

“ I didn’t quite catch that last remark. What 
was the amount of that pension ?” 

They looked up and saw the enterprising 
young man’s head sticking through the face of 
the tall, old-fashioned clock. His right hand, 
with a note book, presently appeared, also. 
He had evidently been improving his time. 

“ I’ve got everything down straight up to 
that point,” he said. “ It’ll be the greatest 
work of my life.” 

“ But, my young friend,” said Rev. Mr. 
Knowles, in some trepidation, “what have you 
done with the works of my clock !” 


THE REWARD OF THE WICKED. 


173 


“They’re down at the bottom,” Jimmy ex- 
plained ; “ I’m standing on ’em. See ?” 

He kicked the machinery, and the clock 
struck twenty-seven. 

“ I fear that you have seriously deranged the 
delicate and costly mechanism,” said Mr. 
Knowles. “ I must regard your conduct as re- 
prehensible.” 

“ Forgive him, sir,” pleaded Bessie, “and I 
will have the clock repaired as good as new, I 
do not like to think that anybody should be 
reproved upon so happy a day.” 

“ I have not looked upon it hitherto as an 
occasion of rejoicing,” said Mr. Knowles ; 
“ nevertheless I will grant your request.” 

“ I suppose I’ve got to go now,” said Jimmy, 
climbing out of the clock. “ But, Mr. Drane, 
if you really have any soul about you, drop me 
a postal-card when you’ve fixed the date of 
your wedding. It won’t be any trouble at all ; 
and, for Heaven’s sake, don’t let me get beaten 
on my own story.” 

“ What date shall we put on the card, Bes- 
sie ?” asked Lawrence. 


174 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


“I don’t know,” protested Bessie, hiding her 
face. “ I never was good at dates when I went 
to school. You’d better fix it yourself.” 



“i didn’t catch the last remark.” 

“ Let me see,” Lawrence said, reflectively ; 
“ yesterday was the twentieth ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And to-morrow will be the twenty-second ?” 
“ Of course.” 

“Well, in that case, I would avoid extremes 
and suggest the twenty-first.” 


.THE REWARD OE THE WICKED. 


175 


“You mix me all up with your arithmetic,” 
said Bessie, frowning prettily. “ Oh ! dear ; 
why, it’s to-day. No, I really can’t think of 
such an awful hurry. You know I’ve given 
away all my dresses, Lawrence. But on the 
twenty-first of next month, if you please — ” 

“ Lawrence,” said Uncle Sanford, “ when I 
look at the woman you will marry I cease to 
doubt your sanity, and — ” 

“ And begin to doubt hers, I suppose,” Law- 
rence broke in. “You are mistaken, uncle. 
She is the only woman I ever met who was 
level-headed enough to recognize a truly good 
man under a ragged coat. I say this modestly, 
but I’m ready to stick to it.” 

******* 

It may be interesting to record, in conclusion, 
that the pension which Drane had promised to 
the reformed couple was always paid promptly 
on the first of every month. Within a year, 
however, a series of inheritances raised them 
far above the necessity for any such charity 
But they kept right on drawing it just the 


176 


THE VICTIM OF HIS CLOTHES. 


same, and thus by a little harmless dishonesty 
varied the monotony of their otherwise exem- 
plary lives, wisely avoiding that excessive vir- 
tue to which progressive good fortune is the 
only real temptation in this world. 


THE END. 


GOOD HANDWRITING OFTEN LEADS TO A FORTUNE i 

A few of He Best Autographs, showing mprcvemeat from using 

GASKELL’S COMPENDIUM 

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[Hon. Henry Watterson in Answer; 
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Gaskell’s system would 


Former Style. 


[Hon. James A. Weston, Ex- 
Governor of New Hampshire , 
in a note to the Publisher .] 

“You will permit me to say that 
it far surpasses anything of the 
kind that has ever come to my 
notice, and I take pleasure in re- 
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GASKELL’S COMPEN- 

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need not take the trouble o go to th'* Post-office to get a money order or to register 
your letter, but, as you finish reading this, enclose a one dollar bill in your letter 
«nd send it at our risk Address all orders to 


PENNIAIV- 

anyone 


GASKELL’S COMPENDIUM, P. 0. Box 2767, New Yon*. 



ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT 
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Address all orders to J. S. OG1LVIE, Publisher, 

P. O. Box 2767. 57 Rose St.. New York* 














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